Raising Winchester
by Indigo2831
Summary: Dean always thought his father was a superhero. Until he lied to him and put Sam at risk. Now the kid who wanted nothing more than good times and gigs of his own is finding out how much his little brother means to him. Limp Sam. Angsty Dean.
1. Chapter 1

Hi, all! This is a multi-part story that was originally supposed to be a short for my series of shorts, The Chick Flick Moments that Never Happened to Dean Winchester. But I liked the idea so much that I decided to flesh it out more. Please let me know what you think. It's nearly finished so there shouldn't be more than a few days between chapters.

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**Raising Winchester**

For Winchesters, concealing and manipulating emotion was as easy and as innate as breathing. Festering, kinetic rage appeared as nonchalant indifference if you plastered a smirk on your face and concentrated the energy into sarcasm. Fear didn't exist if you squared your shoulders and willed a defiant glint your eye. But it felt unnatural to Dean to shutter away _excitement _behind long-suffering sighs and muffled curses as he packed his duffle bag. The raw glee of being away was rattling around inside him like fireflies at dusk.

After months of John gone on weeks-long hunts and Dean being saddled with his little brother in the world's smallest motel rooms in the country's crappiest towns, he was finally _free_. Free of Sammy's endless questions and obsessive studying; of Sammy's demands for food they couldn't afford or school supplies he couldn't find; of feeling more like a father than a twenty-year-old. He hadn't been to a bar or touched a woman in nearly eleven weeks. And now, he was being liberated for seven little brother-free days—Sammy shackles off, collar up.

He was heading away from the merciless cold of whatever square state they were in, and down to the warmth and green of Pastor Jim's land in Georgia for—Dean fought the smile nipping at the corners of his lips—"intensive training in Latin and hand-to-hand." While Dean nearly fell asleep at the thought of all of the work, he could already feel the heat of the sun on his skin and hear the churn and ripple of the water at the docks. Every damn person seemed to be caught in the spell of little Sammy, with the adorable dimples and impeccable manners and the big blue eyes, Pastor Jim had taken a shine to Dean, and that gave him a disgusting amount of hope that the entire week away wouldn't be stuck in the dark gallows of Jim's church clumsily reciting Latin.

Sammy was on the other bed of their tiny motel room, making a meal off of his thumbnail. Dean forced his lips into a glum line and he looked up at Sam, sighing in annoyance before he sent a pillow flying at his anxious little brother. "Why do you look like you're about to be held hostage by a priest?" Dean asked with perfectly feigned irritation.

"I want to come." Sam flopped backwards on the rickety bed. The rusted springs groaned in response. "Why do you get to go?" He asked in wobbly lilt that made him sound very much like the little brother he was.

"Because if I'm stuck in this room for one more day, I'm going to start gnawing on the furniture."

Sam chuckled as his eyes panned their humble little motel room just off the interstate and wearily stood up, unpacking his overflowing backpack. With that shock of brown hair, he looked more like a mop with eyes and an almost sixteen-year-old kid. "Why can't I go with you?"

Dean carded his hands through his short hair and zipped up his bag. "Because you, Revenge of the Nerds, have tests all week. You gotta keep that grade point…thingie up. Lord only knows why."

"For a future—you know that thing you never plan for." Sam wrinkled his nose sourly, "but this school is lame, Dean. And we're leaving when you get back, so I can go with you. It'll be fun. I'm better at Latin than you are. I can help you." Those glittering blue eyes met Dean's with palpable eagerness.

The same Dean was suppressing.

"Only you would think learning latin would be fun. Thanks, Sammy, but I got this." He smirked and moved around the bed to ruffle his fluffy hair. "I'll be back before you know it. And you'll get Dad all to yourself."

Sam's face fell, drained of emotion like it did when he didn't want to talk about something because it would hurt someone's feelings. The tension between John and Sam was steadily mounting and churning like lava building in a once-dormant volcano. Because John had stepped up Sam's training. Real hunts had been added to the drills, and Sam had less time to dedicate to extracurricular activities and studying.

Dean knew Sammy didn't want to be left alone with him. He'd been not-so-subtly saying it for weeks. "Look, I talked to Dad…he's pretty beat, ya know. I don't think he's even up to killing his shadow right now. And he mentioned taking you to that snooze-worthy museum exhibit you've been creaming over."

Dean swore he saw fireworks in his little brother's blue eyes. Shame for that kid to be so excited about crusty, historic crap. They seriously needed to invest in some porn. Dean pushed off the bed. He drummed his fingers against his thighs, lingering in the room as if killing time. He shouldered his duffle and backed towards the door.

"All right, sport. Dad should be back in the morning. Uh, liquor's in the fridge—drink some. All the good drugs, including my pot stash are in the Impala—take some. Money's hidden in the old coffee can—spend it. Do everything I would do, Sammy. That's an order." Dean said, coolly as he backed out of the door and tamped down the urge to run.

He stepped over the threshold when he felt a pang in his stomach cutting through the private flutters of glee. He glanced over a leather-clad shoulder at his little brother. Suddenly, he felt like a neurotic mom, needing to remember that he was wearing a ratty blue fleece and a pair of Dean's jeans. That Sam had a healthy high pink in his cheeks and was swallowing and averting his eyes because he was upset and feeling left out. He dropped his duffle and spread his arms. "Get over here, bitch."

Sam rolled his eyes, begrudgingly dragged himself off the bed and wearily threw his arms around his brother. The head on his shoulder, the fingers fisting Dean's jacket, and the fondly mumbled "jerk" told him that Sam was putting on a performance of his own.

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Leather jacket tucked in the straps of his duffle, sunglasses on, Dean ambled up the tree-lined walkway of Jim's secluded cabin. He reached the door and squinted at the note nailed to the door. "Dean, I left a list of the incantations and exorcisms you need to learn before you leave. How and when you learn them is up to you. I will be staying in the rectory. Enjoy the cabin. Hope to see you for dinner at least once."

Dean whistled and smiled. He let his duffle thunk onto the eroded wood of the porch and walked around the house, where the lush canopy parted to reveal the blue of the lake and the yellow of the Georgia sun. Lifting a hand, Dean squinted at the bikini-clad girls downstream splashing intently in the water. He licked his lips and peeled off his shirt, sprinting for the end of the docks. Airborne, Dean Winchester had the freedom he finally craved.

Her name was Ingrid, and she was a dancer. Her toned upper body, the flecks of glitter in her skin and her penchant for Lucite heels and thick, thick eyeliner told him that she was kind of dancer who was naked by the end of her performance. She was as gorgeous as she was guarded, and their goodbye was as easy as Dean had hoped. Dean brushed her hair out of her face, twirled the fiery tresses around his fingers and reeled her in, kissing her languidly in hot sun. She sparkled in the sunlight like some strange fairy of debauchery. "If you're ever in Austin ," she drawled, "come see me."

Dean smirked, all bravado and leer. "Kiss me like that again, and I'll move to Austin ," he said.

And she was on him again. Dean lifted her up long limbs crossing around him and they kissed and stumbled into grass just beyond the cabin. He pulled away, breathing heavily and wishing he didn't have to leave.

"One more for the road?" Ingrid mumbled, still biting his bottom lip.

The last thing Dean wanted to think about now was his father's stern face and Sammy's gleeful one, but that flashed in his mind, along with the anvilous burden of duty Responsibility; Life and Death. He smiled down at Ingrid, pliant and willing beneath him. "I'll take as many as I can get, sugar."

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Dean all but ran off the bus and down the road to begin his two-mile trek back to the into the sparse city limits. Somewhere between Little Rock and Oklahoma City , Dean realized that the impatient beat of his heart and the restless shaking of his leg that he mistook for the fact he had to leave the slice of Heaven back in Georgia was really because the stupid bus wasn't going fast enough.

He missed his scrawny, whiny, angsty string-bean of a little brother.

He jogged across the icy Iowa parking lot. He huffed out a few frosty breaths, pretending the cold was the reason for his haste. He nearly skidded on a patch of unsalted ice. The Impala wasn't parked in front of the room, meaning dad wasn't home. As Dean unlocked the door, he hoped they hadn't been fighting while he was gone. He poked his head into the dark room, immediately noticing that the threshold was salt-free. The room smelled strangely sour, like rain and mud. He flicked on the light and was startled by a flurry of activity, the chuffing sounds of frenzied motion, undulating shadows in the dark. His duffle bag had been discarded and his gun drawn before he could register the activity. Dean kick the door shut, and heard an echo from across the small room, head the telltale creak of the rusted hinges of the bathroom door.

Dean ambled into the room with a practiced, fatal grace, finger on the trigger. Their small hotel room had been destroyed. Ransacked or searched. He stepped over juts of splintered wood that used to be a desk and crunched on the glass from the framed landscape. Dean didn't care about missing clothes, the busted television or even their brand new laptop.

He only had one concern: "Sammy!"


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks so much for the reviews, favorites, and alerts. It means a lot, really. I hate cliffhangers as much as you do, so no more waiting! Please let me know what you think.

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He stood in the wrecked room, ear pounding in his ears, as he strained to listen for his brother. He called for him again, ignoring the slight hysteria in his voice. He heard a rustle from behind the bathroom. Dean pressed his back against the door, listening. He heard a sniffle and the popping of knuckles, something Sam did when he was upset. Sighing in marginal relief, Dean beat it with a closed fist.

"GO TO HELL!" Sam hollered from the bathroom. His voice was painfully raspy and utterly defiant.

Dean muffled a curse, knowing they'd gotten into a legendary fight without Dean to mediate. A fight so bad he'd yelled himself hoarse. He prayed that the trashed motel room wasn't apart of it. "Sammy, it's Dean."

There was a pause. "Dean." Sam called again. The anger had deflated to sadness and relief.

Dean took it as a cue to enter the bathroom, knowing the door wasn't locked. He opened it, eyes skimming the unusually white tile before they fell to a dirty, damp brother sitting on the floor, head was bowed as if he were praying. His back was tight. His hands were dirty and bleeding at the knuckles. His sweatshirt and hair were splattered with mud.

Dean's hand tightened around the butt of his gun. Whatever had happened, it wasn't as simple as teen angst versus paternal closemindedness. "Sam? Look at me." He ordered fearfully.

Sam hesitated, swallowing with a painful shift of adam's apple, and finally turned to him. Dean's stomach spiraled and twisted in an instantaneous combination of rage, concern and fear at the purple black eye and the red welts and bruises dotting his forehead, jaw and neck. Somehow the sulking, but otherwise healthy kid Dean left just a week ago now looked like he'd tangled with a pack of pissed-off prizefighters. Before Dean could ask if Sam was okay, demand to know what happened, he streaked by him in an uneven but speedy hobble. He ambled around the mess, swiping up whatever clothes he could find, stuffing them in his duffle.

A chill violently licked down his spine as the pieces fell into place, painting a horrible picture. He needed to know if their father had done this, but he couldn't ask the question. A week ago, he would have deemed it impossible. But now, he was afraid of the answer. Instead he stammered out, "What happened, Sam? Who trashed the room?"

"I did," Sam snarled. Frazzled and upset, he tossed the motel remote and small alarm clock into his duffle along with some dirty socks and one shoe.

"What is going…"

He turned his back to his brother, twisting the handle of the duffle in his hands as he breathed erratically. He blinked, one eyelid red and incredibly swollen, blood encrusting his flared nostrils. "Like you didn't know."

Dumbfounded, Dean blinked. "Know about what? All I know is that I came home, you're beat to hell, the place is trashed…Sammy, I have no idea what's going on. You need to tell me what happened." He demanded, trying not to yell and failing terribly.

"_Doozies_." Sam nearly growled, arm tucked against his side.

Dean blindly thumbed the safety on his gun and dropped it, stumbling away from the weapon as his vision was tinted with murderous, scathing red in the wake of unfathomable betrayal. Doozies was a right of passage for hunters, fraternity-like hazing with weapons and drills instead of kegs and togas. It was about honing survival instincts, but mostly about getting your ass kicked and paying dues. But it could get dangerously out of hand. Doozies was usually performed by unknown hunters for objectivity. The hardened veterans and the newer hunters, who'd just went through the same thing, could get carried nastily creative with their tests.

Their father had trained Dean for it, like a father preparing his son for football try-outs. But John, the father Dean respected and loved for his unwavering commitment for killing all the ugly and evil they could, had arranged it without his or Sam's knowledge. And it all made sense…the sudden intensity of Sam's training, the out-of-the-blue trip to Pastor Jim's, the silver-tongued assurances that Sammy would be taken care of, happy even. John had known it was the only way Dean would have gone.

The approaching rumble of the Impala caused Sam to jerk in fear, and frantically continue packing. He groaned when he heaved the duffle over his shoulder. "I can't…stay here. With him. I gotta go. Dean, please let me go."

Dean stumbled through the rage boiling his blood and saw the tears on Sam's bruised face, the quivering of his shoulders as his eyes darted between his face and the door. "Sammy, I didn't know…you believe me, right?"

Sam didn't seem to care. His eyes were wild, and he pushed up the sleeves, revealing bloody, swollen bands around his wrists. "They dragged me out of bed. They tied me up…they t-took me and…_he let them_." Sam confessed in that distraught broken way Dean had only associated with victims.

His mind crackled with white static as he tried to comprehend the unthinkable. His stomach flared with nausea as he tried to digest the impossible. Dean was utterly stupefied by the notion of his father putting Sammy in danger. Sam literally jumped when John noisily entered the room, and took a reflexive step away, repulsed and _terrified_. The same impulse had Dean stepping between his battered brother and his father, jaw locked so tightly his teeth ached.

John stared at Dean as if nothing had happened. He nodded a greeting, gaze panning the room Sam had destroyed. He eyed the shaking teen behind him. "I take it you're done throwing a fit."

Sammy dropped his head, hand gripping Dean's jacket. "I'm leaving." Sam mustered a little more power and stared his dad down. "You try to stop me and I'll call the cops. I'm not freakin' kidding."

John glared. "Guess not."

Dean panicked. Sam was understandably upset, but he was still a kid who was profoundly hurt, flat broke and didn't need to be wandering around in the Iowa snow. "Sammy, wait. Just one second," Dean whispered over his shoulder before he lividly addressed his father. "You want to explain this? Because it looks like you sent me away so you could take Sammy to Doozies." Dean gritted out. "Tell me you didn't plan it like this."

John sighed, exasperated. He rubbed his stubbled jaw and took a nip from his flask. "He's almost sixteen. He has to learn to use everything we've taught him, Dean."

"By snatching in the middle of the night? That's not how it's done, Dad. We planned for it. We trained for it. You made it sound like it was the Olympics of hunting, and it worked. I wasn't even scared, and look at him! Why would you pull this with Sam?"

John shook his head, showing a very late and subdued sign of remorse. "The hunters Caleb set me up with were more gung-ho than I thought."

"Gung-ho? Look at his face, Dad. He looks like he went twelve rounds with a grizzly bear." Dean hollered. "I can't believe you did this. I...I can't…he's your son. And he's not me. Sammy's different."

"Right now you two sound just alike to me." His father smirked smugly, all compassion gone. "He needs to be ready, Dean. Coddling and baby-steppin' him through training isn't going to save his life. It's not going to prepare him for what's really out there," John preached, undeterred by Dean's anger and Sam's sullen silence.

Dean angled back, and regarded his brother's colorful face. His chin was trembling as he fought to keep from crying, his eyes were squinted in poorly concealed pain. He had no idea what to do. He was always taught to stick together, safety in numbers. Their family was fractured enough. But this…this was glaringly and gutwrenchingly wrong, and Dean felt as used and violated as Sam. He retrieved his discarded weapon and tucked it in the back of his pants, he snagged his duffle and gently nudged Sam towards the door with an elbow. "Go outside. Wait for me there."

Sam, who was a ball of nerves and waves of anger, bolted from the room, walking along to wall to remain as far away from their father as he could. When John made a move towards Sam, Dean re-positioned himself, covering his retreat. He lifted his hands in surrender, focusing all of his energy on getting Sammy away from the threat as peacefully as he could. Ignoring the incredible kick in the teeth that the threat was the man Dean once thought was infallible. "Sammy need some space…and I'm feeling like the biggest pawn on the chess board, so…."

John advanced on him, smelling of Jack Daniels and intimidation. He fisted Dean's collar, backing him up roughly against the wall hard enough to make the drywall groan. "You fall in line, son, right now."

Dean let himself lash out, relishing the hard shove to his father's chest. John stumbled back, growled and advanced again. Violence was a close family friend as they sparred each other almost daily, but it was always in the form of pulled punches and padded blows. Never out of anger or to win an argument. Dean swung back, slapping his father hard with an open hand—a sign of disrespect and ridicule. Dean backed out of the room, closing the door on his father's stunned face.


	3. Chapter 3

Wow, everyone. I was flabbergasted by the reviews of the second chapter. I'm glad everyone is liking the story. I'll be honest, I was doing so well with writing it that I'd thought I'd be finished with it by now. I hit a bit of a wall...I know where it's going, I just don't know how to get there. So onward! Please let me know what you think. Suggestions are welcome!

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Chapter 3

They drove for hours in a borrowed Honda and in anxiety-ridden silence. Dean unsure of what to do while Sam sat miserable and silent in the passenger seat. Dean pulled over on a dark street and got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He paced in the white of the headlights, felt wild with rage and burdened with guilt. It wasn't Sam's fault that he was different. Dean admired Sam's drive for answers and his independence. He loved that his little brother was strong in ways Dean wasn't. But John blamed him for it, saw it has a liability, not a prize. And now, the man that Dean had idolized, adored and put on a pedestal was tarnished and sullied. He'd fallen farther than Dean ever thought he could. All he wanted to do was fight and drink, because that's all he'd been taught to do.

But Sammy was different. He was happier than he should have been, smarter than John and Dean combined, and John's quest was smothering him. Dean wanted more for him than he wanted for himself. So he stamped his anger down, buried it deeper than a coffin, and focused on the task at hand: taking care of Sam.

When he got back into the car, Sam was tucked against the passenger seat, pale in the garbled light of passing cars. His eyes were closed and his hands were knotted into tight fists. Dean frowned, reaching back to snag an old ratty blanket from the backseat, which he draped over him. "Hospital?" He asked, though he already knew the answer.

"No." Sam didn't even open his eyes.

"Sammy…"

Sam turned to face him, eyes dark, face increasingly puffy. "…I don't want strangers touching me, all right?"

Dean's stomach dropped for what felt like the 150th time in a couple of hours. "What happened out there?"

"I'll…tell you later," he murmured, sounding very much like the child he still was.

He checked them into a nice motel—one with clean bathrooms, a small living area, and robes in the closet. Dean parked away from street, concealing the stolen car behind the building. Sam had lapsed back into his spaced-out quiet. They settled into the room, and Dean herded him into the bathroom and helped Sam strip to his boxers.

Dean helped Sammy sit on the edge of the bathroom after he'd kicked off his pants and sneakers. "Arms up," he prodded, holding the hem of his sweatshirt.

Sam's arms got a few inches above his waist before he winced and shook his head, resigned. "Cut it."

"Can do. Hated that one anyway." Dean said with a wink as he scissored through the layers of cheap cotton in a few seconds and gingerly peeled them off.

It took everything he had not to punch walls or empty his clip into the nearest bed when he saw the eggplant-hued bruises and scrapes streaking his brother's torso and skinny arms. He kept his face hard, and his muscles locked as he turned and noiselessly offered him some painkillers.

Sam swallowed them, looking oddly like a baby bird as he sat vulnerable, spindly arms bent like weak wings. He looked at Dean with hooded eyes, limned with silver. "I fought back," he rasped, swiping a hand across his face.

Dean swelled and broke with pride as he focused on the scraped, swollen knobs of shoulders, knuckles and knees, the wide crimson bands on his throat and chest, the bloated swollen knee. He cupped Sam's pale, clammy cheek. "I know you did, kid. You fought hard."

"They were too big. And…I couldn't..."

"You weren't supposed to win, Sammy. It's about survival. But what they did to you was wrong. This is not your fault…they went way too far."

He'd hoped patching Sam up would be like the aftermath of any other hunt. Dean could detach better than any doctor when Sam's life was on the line, ignore his cries of pain and even the tears until the wound was stitched or the bone was reset.

But this was remarkably different.

And his trademark sarcasm had checked out, too, leaving nothing but tense, thick silence pressing down on them. He inspected and prodded the darkening bruises on his face and body, checking for broken bones and internal injuries. He disinfected the weeping abrasions on his knees, knuckles and elbows. And felt them all as if they were on his own body. Sam wasn't talking, but the injuries told their own violent story. Sam had been choked at some point and been restrained long enough for the thin ties or ropes to cut into his skin. The vivid purple treads of the bootprint on his back had told him that someone had freakin' _stomped_ on his little brother. He'd fallen, hard, judging by the skinned knees and palms. The softball-sized, swollen dark blotches described hard and fierce kicks, at least seven, everywhere.

Sam's breathing accelerated as Dean worked, growing wetter and wetter until he was trapped in some gutwrenching cycle of hyperventilating and crying. "Calm down, Sam, just a little more." Dean promised. He was disinfecting the wounds on Sammy's right wrist when his breathing changed, hitched and then halted all together. He listed to the side, eyes rolling back, coiled muscles now soft and limp.

"Damnit," Dean cursed as his trepidation spiked. He caught Sam easily before fell back into the tub, cradling the teenager easily. Dean patted his cheek softly and tried to smile when Sam glanced at him blearily a minute later. Dean could tell by his glassy, unfocused eyes that he had a concussion. "You back?"

"…mhmm…jus' got dizzy."

"I know you're tired and I know it hurts, but you can't cry, okay? It's going to hurt more if you cry."

Sam nodded, tears trailing out of the corners of his eyes. Dean thumbed them away and gently sat him up again. He finished his work, and swiveled, grabbing the clean clothes off the toilet seat with his right arm, while holding Sam upright with this left.

"Dean, I'm dirty." Sam whispered. He wiped his eyes and blinked sleepily. "I need a shower."

Dean wordlessly reached for the knobs, cranking on the warm water. Sam was weak, the water was warm and within minutes, his knees were buckling. Dean stepped inside the tub, shoes and all, providing the stability while Sam shakily, but determinedly washed the trauma away.

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If he thought the night he came home and found Sam bloody and afraid of his own father was the worst night of his life, he was wrong.

It was the night that followed.

After sleeping, hard and healing, for nearly a day, Sam woke up, muscles rigid from overuse, locked with pain. The fever was just the icing on the cruel cake. Sam's face was pressed into the pillow as he shook and whimpered and cried with what Dean knew was a maddening pain. He'd ruled out internal injuries. Sam's ribs were sore, but they were unbroken.

He was drifted again, falling into a blissfully black pool of sleep when Sam whimpered and yanking him back. Dean jolted up immediately awake and leapt from the uncomfortable chair he'd dragged near the bed. He leaned over Sam, placing a gentle hand on his back.

"Sammy, I need you to relax, just relax," Dean whispered, rubbing his arm. "I gave you some drugs, remember. They're going to start working soon."

His head was swimming. He hadn't slept in two days and all he wanted was be back at that cabin in Georgia . With Sam.

Sam seemed to tense up even more, hand lashing out as another current of pain coursed through him. He breathing was getting worse and Dean remembered the damp clothes Sam was wearing when he found him. He cursed, and dropped his head down to Sam's chest, feeling not only the heat of his skin, the quivering of his muscles, but the slight growl and crackle of his shallow breaths.

He was getting sick.


	4. Chapter 4

Wow, the weekend goes by quickly. Thanks again for the wonderful reviews! I love it! I know there hasn't been much action but it will definitely pick up in the next chapter. I think I'm back on track as far as inspiration goes. So here's another chapter. Please let me know what you think. I love hearing it.

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Chapter 4

Dean was careening near panic. In his haste to protect Sammy, he hadn't thought to take the Impala, thus they had no insurance cards. No spare credit cards. No secret stash of emergency cash. Which meant he couldn't take Sammy to the hospital like he should have two days ago. He could get him to a clinic and then have money for the prescriptions. His heart galloped in his chest, and Dean imagined it slapping the back of his breast bone like the red ball attached to the ping pong racket. He laughed, but it was mirthless and weary, so he cursed instead.

Dean didn't have all the answers. And he certainly couldn't fix this. His father had trusted him with a lot, but John knew more about the world and how to care for Sam. Dean was just the back-up. As crazy and horrible and wrong as it felt, Dean wanted his father to help him figure out what to do. But Sammy was hurt and sick because of him, and Dean had to figure it out on his own.

And that made him want his mother.

Dean's heart was breaking now. If he dwelled on this, he'd cry like a weak little kid for a whole week and not stop for a month, so he put his game face on. He was a hunter and he needed to act like one. Hunters searched for patterns in actions and therein was the solution. He thought about Sammy, and all the times he'd been sick and what he'd done to take care of him, what he needed. He even had a detailed list of illnesses and injuries, but those were in the Impala too, but Dean had a damn good memory for all things Sammy.

The one time they'd let Sam go on a field trip, it was to a summer camp in Wisconsin for four days. He'd chattered about it for a months when he got back, how they canoed and built tepees and caught crayfish (which they later cooked and ate) and drank sumac tea and how he had a waterfight with his best friend, Sam Stevens, before they left. "It was the Battle of the Sams," he had said, beaming, "and I won!"

Sammy had come home with the same growl in his chest, and the doctor at the clinic he'd taken him to had diagnosed it as bronchitis and said it should clear up on his own. "Comfort measures," he said, smiling at Dean like he was a seasoned parent. Then the smile deepened and he explained, "Tylenol for the fever, lots of fluids and check his sputum, bring him back if it turns yellow or green." And Dean had thought that was disgusting, but he did it. Obsessively.

"Comfort measures," he said. He could do that.

Gently, he eased Sam upright, shushing his outward moans of pain and propped him up with pillows, gave him some Tylenol and which he could sedate him through the worst of the pain, but he didn't have anything strong enough…except Benadryl. Dean found the box in the bottom of Sam's duffle, woke him up, and gave him a full tab. "Hey, kid. That'll help with you sleep." Sam's blinked blearily, tears tracking down his face as he swallowed the drugs.

Sam was a tangle of knotted muscles and Dean pulled up the covers from the foot of the bed. He kneaded the hardened muscle with warm, sure hands.

"Tell me about Mom," Sam mumbled in a ragged whisper.

Dean managed a soft smile. Stories about their mother and their life before the fire were Sam's fairy tales, impossibly romantic and surreal parables of a time that didn't exist anymore, and never would. "She used to do this when I was sick. Always made me sleepy. She was gentle, like a mom, but fierce at the same time. She didn't take crap from anyone. Ever. And she _loved you_, Sammy." Dean said. Sometimes, he could hear her voice and feel her around him. He wished now was one of those times. "She loved you more than anything." Dean said, working on Sam's hands now.

Sam was fading, body relaxed and pliant and blinks getting longer and longer. They finally closed but Sam murmured, "sounds like you, Dean," before sleep finally claimed him.

This night was a long one. Dean gave up sleeping in the chair and passed out ontop of the covers next to Sam. He woke up every time he stirred or shift or grunted, silencing him with a soft touch to his fever-dampened back. Sometimes, he got up to cover the worst of his injuries in icepacks and almost prayed for the night to end. Sam was suffering and it was evil and he couldn't stop it no matter how much he wanted to.

When morning finally and almost impossibly came, Sam was still asleep and Dean was thankful, but starving.

He ambled out into the sunshine and melting snow, and ducked into a convenience store a few blocks from the hotel. He bought some microwavable breakfast sandwiches, a few cans of soup, Gatorade and Sam's favorite cookies and was forced to use his dwindling cash.

When he entered the small lobby of the hotel, decorated with silk flowers and dark mahogany, the kindly receptionist flagged him down. Dean's stomach dropped at her anxious expression. "Hi, young man," she said, head cocked with what Dean knew was sympathy and hesitation.

Belatedly, Dean wondered if he looked as bad as he felt. His face itched with growing stubble and he knew he'd smelled slightly sour. "Hi, ma'am. How are you this morning?"

"Oh, I'm doing well," Her polite smile was fleeting, "but um…" She glanced down at the papers in her hand. "I'm sorry, but your credit card was declined for today…the card's maxed out. And I do apologize—I hate this part of my job—but we need you to uh, leave the premises." The grandmotherly woman was crumpling the paper, obviously uncomfortable and upset.

Dean's back puckered in a cold sweat and he locked his jaw, feeling hysteria rise again. He scrubbed a tired hand over his face. She wasn't like the greedy slumlords Dean had encountered in the past, and he couldn't muster the emotion to scam the poor woman. "No, yeah, of course. We'll be out…as soon as we can. Uh, it just might take awhile because…m'brother's sick and hurt, and I just…need to see if I can get him up right now. Just give us a little…"

He wasn't even trying to ply her with a guilt trip, but he'd realized that it was a reflex when she placed a kind hand on his arm and regarded him with sad, pitiful eyes. He was humiliated that he couldn't even take care of his little brother. "Sweetie, you take your time, okay? The bossman won't know about this until he has to."

"I don't wanna get you in trouble."

"Don't worry about it. Go tend to your brother."

Dean wanted to hug her but decided he probably needed a shower first. He knew she felt sorry for him, and he didn't care. He placed a hand over hers, squeezing a little, before he galloped upstairs, hoping he'd have time to feed Sam, shower, and linger in the room until he had a plan. When he opened the door, Dean nearly tripped over the two duffels parked in its threshold. Sam was sitting on the bed, hunched over, weak and groggy, but dressed. He blinked up at Dean, still wearing that brittle expression of trauma. "They called about the credit card." He whispered.

_Crap._ "I gathered," Dean said.

"I packed our stuff."

"I see that. And you left the alarm clocks this time. Good job."

Sam didn't laugh. Dean hadn't expected him too. Sam twisted the tail of his flannel button-up as if he were trying to strangle it.

"What's on your mind, kid?"

"So I guess that means we're going back…to Dad?"

"What?" Dean squawked.

Sam shrugged one shoulder and coughed into his elbow before he looked at him with mismatched eyes. "I know you want to…and we don't have any money…and I messed everything up. I didn't…"

"Are you ready to go back?" Dean asked, punching down his anger.

Sam's eyes darted away and he shook his head quickly. In that second, Dean missed his brother. The happy-go-lucky kid, who would read books curled up in the sun, jumped on his back and actually laughed when Dean toss him into the wall or flipped him over his shoulder. He missed the kid who lived for school and friends, always forgave Dean within seconds after an argument.

"Then we won't."

"But we don't…"

Dean crackled with despair and frustration. "STOP WORRYING ABOUT THE MONEY!" He barked. And felt like an ass when Sam flinched and scrambled away. "Sorry. Sam, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell. You're more important than money. I'll take care of it." Dean said. Sam didn't believe him, just stared at the floor, tears in his eyes.

Dean dug his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed: "Hey, Bobby, this is Dean. Not so good no…Look, things got a bit rough with Dad and Sammy and we'll be heading up there for a few days to cool down, okay? Yeah, we'll be there in a day or so. Thanks, Bobby."

Sam still didn't look at him as Dean dialed again: "Hey, Caleb, this is Dean. Oh great. Look, things got a bit rough with Dad and Sammy. We're gonna need to crash with you for a few days to clear the air, okay? Give us about 14 hours, okay? Thanks, man."

That got Sam's attention. His wide, confused eyes leapt to Dean's face. Dean winked, dialed again and held a silent finger up as the phone rang and he got a voicemail: "Hi, Pastor Jim, it's Dean. Um, I need to borrow that cabin or yours again, just for a week or so. I'm heading up now with Sam. Call me when you get this."

"Now do you believe me? Dad's gonna be looking for us and he's gonna stumble onto a bitch of a goosechase."

Sam almost smiled. Dean saw it, the light stirring in his eyes. "I just need to make one more phone call. You decide what kind of car I should steal next, okay?"

Dean headed into the bathroom to dial one last number. He forced his voice not to shake as they answered the phone: "Hi, I need a really big favor…"


	5. Chapter 5

Hi. I know it's been so long since I updated, and I'm so sorry about that. Life got insane, and I got blocked. I have a food blog (www (.) saturday-chef (.) blogspot (.) com ) and that has been taking a lot of my time as well. But alas, I promise it will not be an eternity before I post again. For your patience, you get a double-chapter.

Please let me know what you think!

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Chapter 5

The road opened up to seductive curves and undulating flats. The dirty patches of late winter snow ebbed away, first to muddy browns and brittle trees, then the warm goldens and greens of the south. As weary as he was, Dean always felt better on the road, and the further away from he got, the smaller the pounding knot between his shoulders became. For being eerily silent, Dean could still tell that Sam felt better too. He always did on the road. He slept peacefully and woke up with a lazy shifting of consciousness, not lurching away from nightmares.

Sam was sleeping again, bundled in Dean's jacket on the passenger seat of a big SUV that definitely wasn't the Impala. He missed the Impala almost more than he missed the chaotic flow of life before. Dean wanted his tapes, the aggressive bass and thrashing guitar, and to sink down in her warm, comfortable seats, and just not think. Let someone else take the wheel.

But the road continued was never-ending, Sam needed him, so Dean had to deal. Finally, he reached the confines of the city. As the car ambled down the dusty alley, Dean matched the address he was given to a weathered duplex with a wrap-around porch. Its white paint was dingy, cracked and fading. There was a streak of rust on bleeding down the concrete beneath the spigot. In the orange sunlight and dissipating heat was Ingrid, swathed in a sexy kimono-inspired robe with the bedazzled dragon roaring fire up the shoulder. Her legs were long, lean and her crimson curls blew in the breeze. He threw the car in park, but left the engine running. He sagged back into the unfamiliar seats, trying to find the strength to get out of the car and confront the future.

He watched through exhaustion-blurred eyes as Ingrid stubbed out her cigarette with the toe of a platform heel and strutted down the steps, letting her robe fall open to reveal a flash of curves and black bra. Dean forced himself out and met her a few feet away from the car.

He tried to smile in the brilliant sun, but squinted instead. "Hey."

"Hi, baby." She said softly.

Meekness didn't fit her. But she when gathered him up and hugged him hard and long, like he'd needed for days, and Dean thought maybe tenderness did. "Um…wasn't sure where else to go…"

"I'll think of ways you can pay me back," Ingrid said with a sultry roughness in her voice. "Where's Sam?" She said, the name slipping comfortably off his lips. Dean had talked a lot about Sam in Georgia.

"I'll get him."

Ingrid hung back as Dean ducked inside the vehicle, gently pulling off his jacket and shook Sam gently. The kid was worn out from the non-stop hours on the road, shivering and pale around the now blackening bruises.

Sam awoke, fighting, a flailing arm clapping Dean in the ear. An elbow nearly clocked him in the neck. Dean grappled with him for a few dark moments, not wanting to hurt him, but knowing just how lethal Sam could be when it mattered. Finally, he grasped both of Sam's wrists. "Sammy, knock it off. It's Dean, just Dean."

Sam exhaled painfully, and flopped in the seat, boneless and confused. He blinked and Dean stared at him, watching awareness and embarrassment creep back into his eyes. He wrenched his hands out of Dean's grip. "Sorry."

Dean shrugged, smoothing down Sam's sleep-mashed hair with a grin. "It's all right. I wasn't using that ear anyway. We're finally here."

"Where's here?"

"Texas, Austin. We're gonna be crashing with a friend. Ready for a bed and some drugs?"

Sam glanced out with the window with muted curiosity. "God, yes." He leaned forwarded as Dean helped angle him out of the backseat and across the loose dirt. He led Sam up a small staircase and porch, and into Ingrid's townhouse. Ingrid helped a bit too, holding open doors and smiling at Sam's battered face, instead of cringing like everyone else did. Ingrid let him have the bigger bedroom, one that was made up in sunny yellows and disarming pinks with a bedspread covered in roses. After more drugs and some Gatorade, Sam was out again.

Dean sat with him for a second, adjusting the covers and checking his temperature, which was still pretty high. He scrubbed a tired hand over his face, feeling the need to keep going, to keep doing, and sprung up again. He started pacing and ticking off things that needed to be done. "I have to go…take care of the car and pick up some food for him. Find a Laundromat to get his clothes washed…"

"We have food, cupboards full. And a washer and dryer." The softness of her voice cut through the haze of devastation. And he stopped.

He wasn't used to having help.

Ingrid tried to smile, but it faded. Dean thought he saw pity in her eyes. "You told me Sam was hurt, but I wasn't expecting…"

"I know." Dean said, ignoring the wetness in the back of his throat.

"Come here."

Dean canted his head and saw Ingrid patting the couch cushion, beckoning him like he was a puppy or a lover. The rage he'd tried to keep at bay was burning hard and hot. He shook his head and whipped off his jacket, glad he wasn't armed. Ingrid let him pace and didn't curse too much when he kicked her faux-wood coffee table. She corralled him in the kitchen, plied him with a few shots of tequila. Dean leaned against the counter of her sunny kitchen, staring at the fruit bowl and handmade potholders. It was everything that Sam didn't have, and everything that led him to the labyrinth of horrors that was his life. There had been a whining drone, a strangled cry, building within, and it was rattling like a tea kettle now, all dynamic hate and choking anger. Ingrid poured him another belt of tequila. He knocked it back, trading the tiny glass for the bottle when the alcoholic burn didn't cancel out the emotional one. He was a failure as a protector and a brother. He wasn't some mighty hunter, just the guy who let his little brother get beat up and tortured.

Ingrid dropped a tender hand on his back. And that was all it took to snap his fraying resolve. He broke, hearing a crisp thwap against his ribs and he was crying and muttering craziness. It was too fast, and too much, and he couldn't keep up with the ugliness pouring out of him, drowning him. Time dissolved into strobing snatches. He was leaning against the stove, smelling the gas ebbing from the pilot light. He was collapsed on the kitchen floor, pressing a dishtowel in his mouth, so his keening sobs wouldn't wake up Sam. He was on the couch, head in Ingrid's lap.

Finally, and mercifully, he was asleep.

-o-

When Dean opened his eyes again, he was stiff-limbed, clear-headed, and cheek-flushingly mortified. He was on the couch in the living room. He heard the echoings of Sam's hoarse coughing and darted up, knowing by the whitewash of sun through the windows that he'd been sleep for more than twelve hours. He fell off the couch in haste to get to him, fighting on the creaking wood floors with the blanket that knotted around his legs like a noose. He wrenched it off of him, scrambling around corners and skidding on the rug to the spare bedroom. He crossed the threshold to witness a scene he'd never forget. What immediately caught Dean's eye was the sheer amount of exposed skin—cleavage and thighs. The second thing was the sheer amount of glitter and sequins and colored feathers. But in the middle of it all, was Sam sandwiched between two strippers—Ingrid's friends, probably—Dean didn't recognize with Ingrid stretched across the foot of the Sammy's bed. He was eating a cinnamon roll and watching "Speed," but like any other red-blooded male, he was more enticed by the ample breasts mere inches from his face than the movie.

It was surreal and hilarious, especially when Sam's eyes met his and they glimmered with a life Dean hadn't seen in weeks. And the oldest Winchester, who'd felt like a failure and a lowlife for bringing his little brother to a strange stripper's house took pride in his little brother's gruff rasping laugh, joining in a bit too.

-o-

If Winchesters were good at anything, it was taking whatever scraps they could find and starting over. Sam's bruises healed. He started reading and engaging and talking again. And though he was forever changed, more distrustful and more paranoid, but he was dealing better than Dean ever would have. But secretly, Dean did mourn the brother he'd lost, because the Sam that emerged on the other side of a father-sponsored beating, was volatile and dark and different than the Sam before.

Dean tried to distract him the best he could. About two weeks after they'd arrived in Austin, he'd woke Sam up at 7 a.m. by dropping a backpack full of textbooks at his feet and grunted, "Rise and shine, Sammy. Time for school." The exultation on Sam's sleepy face was enough to make the weeks of freeloading, forging, and stealing worth it.

It didn't take long for Dean to get a job at Ingrid's strip club. He worked at a bouncer/bartender, making enough money to buy an old Charger and pay rent the room they were crashing in. It wasn't the home that Sam imagined—studying in a nudy bar, wild parties on the weeknights and constantly covering their tracks—but it was the best they'd ever had, besides summers at Bobby's.

Ingrid wasn't tough to deal with either. She was strong, silver-tongued, and sexy. All of Dean's favorite things. And while they weren't writing sonnets to each other, they were definitely getting _attached_. Dean liked to think it was because of her attitude or body, but he knew it was because of the effort she put in with Sam. She didn't love Dean, but she adored his little brother and even tried to learn how to cook so she could make him his favorite foods.

Even though he missed hunting, life as a civilian wasn't so bad. He promised himself he wouldn't bring up Dad until Sam did. There were times, rare moments, that Dean missed his father so badly it hurt. He needed the sure, guiding hand on his shoulder, the gun at his back, the only sonuvabitch who could rattle his cage and see through his bad boy front. But he hated him too, despised what he turned Sam into, and knew that this mess had changed Dean too, and not for the better. He just hoped that Austin and their colorful friends would help brighten up his little brother.

Dean wasn't surprised, however, when he got a call at work from Sam's school. Apparently, Sammy, the kid who used to take beatings to appear "normal", had started a fight before school. He now stood in a conference room and watching Sam, bloodied knuckles and grass-stained shirt, pace the length of it. The rage wafted off of him like the Texas heat, rippling the air around him.

The principal walked in, a gruff-faced man with glasses and wide shoulders. Dean, who was no stranger to fighting in school, thought that they'd give Sam a suspension and some stern warnings which they'd laugh about later. But his face fell when the details were shared.

It had taken three teachers to get him off the kid. The principal tossed around words like "anger management" and "expulsion." The kid was taken to the hospital, almost unconscious.

"Sam, what the hell is the matter with you?"

Sam's black eyes shifted to him and he continued to stalk the length of the room. For a second, Dean didn't recognize his brother, the murderous arrangement of his features and the haunted bleakness in his eyes. It aged him far beyond his fifteen years.

Suddenly, it dawned on him, the intensity of that loan was new, but the sentiment wasn't. It meant that he had been provoked, and knowing Sam, some great injustice had ignited Sam's shorter fuse. "What buttons did he push, Sammy? What did he do?"

The front of anger receded a bit, and Dean saw his brother beneath it, smothered by it. He didn't sit down but he stood at the foot of the scuffed table by Dean's side. His shirt was artfully splattered with the other kid's blood.

The principal seemed interested and less worried about a lawsuit. "You need to explain yourself, Samuel."

"He called my friend, Sienna, the…uh, n-word. I told him to cut it out…we screamed at each other, but he backed down when I…got in his face," Sam's voice was quiet and trembling with something other than tears. "I walked away, and he…grabbed me from behind…and I thought. I remembered when…" He stopped himself and leaned against the windowsill.

Dean winced. _A sneak attack_. He could only imagine what kind of warm memories that brought up. Sam was just protecting himself in a way no fifteen-year-old should have to.

He stood up and grabbed Sam's eyes, telling him to calm down. "Go clean up, Sam. I'll take care of this, okay?"

Sam left without a word. Dean cracked his knuckles and tried to read the principal. He didn't look as disgusted as he had before. He seemed…concerned, watching Sam slink down the hall, head hanging between his shoulders. Dean thought maybe he had a chance.

He cleared his throat. "I know what Sam did was…awful, and you want to do damage control, but I know my brother. Sammy's a good kid who has been through hell recently. If you expel him, because some kid went all KluKlux without the sheet, it's going to crush him."

The principal nodded, listening intently. "Sam wouldn't speak to anyone immediately after. He just shutdown." He adjusted his glasses. "This definitely sheds more light on what happened. I can't promise anything, Mr. Winchester, but we will investigate this incident fully before we make a decision."

"Thank you, sir. I can't ask for more than that." Dean stood up, ready to go take care of Sam.

"I like Samuel. I really do. He's an intelligent, well-mannered young man. But he's needs help with that temper of his…especially since he obviously has studied boxing or martial arts."

"Sam was attacked about six weeks ago," Dean blurted out. "It wasn't pretty."

He rarely showed his hand to strangers, but Sam needed to stay in school and the normalcy it provided.

"Wow, that's terrible. I'm sorry he had to go through such an ordeal."

"Me too. Sam's a great kid. Happy and smart as a whip. He's funny too. That's the Sam I wish you could see. He's on the mend but it's a long road, ya know?"

The principal smiled softly, and Dean recognized the sympathy and was grateful he wasn't being pitied. There was something about this man that he respected, and Dean couldn't write him off as another clueless civilian.

"I wish I could know that Sam too. I have a friend, he's a psychologist. I'll get you the information. It will help if Sam talks to something or at the very least, vents his anger. If he manages to stay, it'll be by the skin of his teeth and something like this can't happen again."

Dean tensed at the idea of a shrink, but didn't immediately dismiss it. He extended his hand, shaking the principal's firmly. "Thank you, sir."

-o-

The eldest Winchester was leaning against the car, baking in the hot sun when Sam emerged from the school, backpack bloated with all of his textbooks. He tossed it in the back of Dean's Charger, and folded into the seat, slamming the door. Dean got inside, but didn't start the car. "Sam, look, I'm not mad. I'm just worried-"

The ghost of his little brother locked his jaw, fists balled up in his lap. "Drive."

"Where do you want to go?"

He exhaled, breathing methodically, and let his head flop back against the seat. "Just drive."

"That, I can do."

-o-

There was something about speeding through the landscapes, breathing in different winds that were all healing, the Winchester form of meditation. Dean fled and drove wherever this new car wanted to go. Night fell. He called in sick to the strip club and left a message for Ingrid. They refueled and kept going until they saw the winding band of the Mississippi and much later, mountains. They grabbed lunch at one of those old school truck stops with good, homestyle food and parked on a scenic highway to drink in the distance and the beauty in front of them. Sam had been quiet—his standard setting—but he seemed calmer. They sat on the trunk, eating fried chicken sandwiches and waffle fries.

"I couldn't stop myself. I wanted to, but I couldn't."

Dean nudged him with his elbow. "Dude deserved it." He sipped his sweet tea and wished it was beer. "But, Sam, that rage isn't helping you. What you did wasn't you at all…and it kills me to watch you go through this. Your principal thinks that maybe you should see a shrink."

Sam huffed and took a heated bite of his sandwich. "I don't need to see a shrink, Dean. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to remember it. I just want it to go away."

"It's not going to, kid. And you have to talk about it. You have to…deal."

Lightning flashed across his features and Sam was recoiling, fidgeting and beginning to freak out. "If you make me do this, Dean, I won't say a word. I'll sit there and waste money and I'll hate you _forever_."

Dean nodded, feeling helpless as he watched his brother lash out. "I can take it, Sammy. I can take it because eventually you'd talk and eventually, you'd be better than you are now."

Sam shook his head, tears in his eyes. "I'm trying. I really am."

"I know you are, kid. I see how hard you're trying, and that's good. But you need help. This is uncharted territory for me, dude. And I try to imagine being in your place, but I can't."

"I don't want to talk to a stranger about this…they won't understand. Half of it would be lies anyway."

Dean tapped the back of the trunk with his knuckles. "Then talk to me."

Sam turned to him, stunned. His eyes were wild and wide. He looked like a cornered animal, desperate for escape but prepared to fight to protect itself. Dean placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, squeezing before he turned his attention back to his food. He ate, despite the nauseating anxiety twisting in his stomach. He willed Sam to just let go and let Dean help, but he was also ready to wait for as long as that took.

He felt like a proud parent when Sam inhaled unsteadily and said, "I didn't know what was happening." Sam's voice was soft, nearly drowned out by the echo of passing cars on the nearby interstate. His brow creased deeply before he plowed forward. "One second I was sleep and warm. The next, it was loud and they were everywhere…"

Dean didn't think about how much it would hurt him to know exactly what had happened or even allow himself to react to his own rage.

He just listened.


	6. Chapter 6

I have to start off by saying thank you to everyone who read, alerted and reviewed a story that's been unfinished for a year. It means a lot that people liked it enough to push me to keep going. I was severely blocked but I finally got inspired to finish it, and I can't wait for y'all to read it. Thanks so much. Again.

This chapter is setting up for the next and final chapter. I hope it was worth the wait. Please let me know what you think!

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**Chapter Six**

Dean searched for the stars in the clear Texas sky that stretched in an infinite dome of black. It made him feel small and alone and helpless, like the people they saved or like a man who hadn't been raised to fight, protect and kill things that preyed on others. Dean's eyes canvassed the cloudless expanse of the universe and couldn't even find one star. Nothing to guide him or even send him in the right direction. That was why he loved hunting. Beyond the adrenaline rush and the semi-automatic toys that came with it, he relished in the simplicity of his job, his calling. Bad things needed to be killed, and Dean always armed. That was all. There was no gray area, no heart-wrenching situations where the monster had a side and the victim was in wrong.

Sam had shutdown after he explained, in sobering, brutal detail, what had happened to him that horrible night of Doozies. He spoke dried-eyed with his hands balled into white-capped fists in his lap the entire time. Dean had driven for a few hours then, and then checked into a quiet motel off the interstate. Sam slept now, tipped over in the bed in his clothes. After hearing it all, Dean now understood that he would be forever changed, and probably not for the better and he marveled at how Sam had coped.

Dean left the window and the starless sky and sat sentry by his brother as if he could protect him from the inevitable nightmares. His hands fell limp between his knees, and ached for the cool confidence that came with holding his favorite pearl-handled gun. He yearned for his father, the man who'd fought everything he had known to find out what had truly killed his wife and who had thanklessly put his life in danger again and again to save strangers from the same fate. Not the man responsible for abducting, tricking and traumatizing Mary's precious Sammy.

He missed his hero.

Behind him, Sam whimpered in his sleep, wiggling restlessly. Dean reached back, gripping his shoulder—firm reassurance that he was safe and protected.

Sam's hands were still curled into tight fists.

Before he knew it, his face was wet with silent tears as he grieved for the loss of the coolest guy he'd ever known and the carefree, innocent little brother he would never see again.

-6-

In the end, they did what Winchesters did when times were harder than the usual parade of crap: they drove. Up and down the Texas highways with aimless whimsy. Dean searched for the perfect spot, and he found it on a country road that parted a sun-withered field of wheat. He pulled over on the deserted stretch of ill-maintained pavement, and got out of the car. Sam, who had been running on auto-pilot, got out with the same dead, mechanical precision in which he'd dressed and eaten breakfast. But he stumbled, coming alive with confusion when Dean slid into the passenger seat.

He merely grinned. "You drive, Sammy."

Sam had been able to drive since he was twelve, but only for emergencies. Dad had never let do it, even if he was dead on his feet and Dean was too injured to drive himself.

Dean offered advice when it was needed, but mostly just let him go. The Charger was smaller than the Impala, cramped and boxy, and the rumble of the engine was much too high. Dean could almost hear the missing horsepower. "I wish this was the Impala," he confessed.

Sam chanced a glance at his brother, life stirring in his eyes, the smallest of smiles pulling magnetically at his lips. "I don't."

He clapped Sam on the shoulder and leaned back in the seats, closing his eyes against the brightness of the sun. Somehow, they found their bearings all on their own.

-6-

The return trip was free of the suffocating tension that had hung in the air during the flight from Austin. Sam was still quiet, but he seemed unburdened and lighter than he had been in weeks. Somewhere between the rolling flats and the lush greens of Texas, Dean had formulated a plan and had regained his confidence. Despite how lost he felt, this was what was best for Sam. And that was all that mattered.

As soon as they returned to Austin, Sam would go see the head-shrinker the school's principal had recommended. He was going to write a letter of apology to the kid's parents—making nice only so he wouldn't be expelled. Dean was also going to start training him again, knowing that the physical release would help Sam vent some of the emotion words couldn't express.

It was a foreign comfort that neither Winchester had been prepared for when they pulled into the driveway of their weathered duplex.

They were home.

Sam took off into the house, hitching up the waistband of his store-bought, too-big jeans and hopped up the stairs. By the time Dean entered the house, Sam was planting a chaste kiss on Ingrid's cheek before giving her the red pepper earrings he'd bought her at a rest stop on the way home, an apology for disappearing. She accepted them with a sweet smile, patted his cheek and told him to shower for dinner.

Dean was immediately suspicious as the stove was pristine and the oven was turned off. There was no tomato sauce on the ceiling either. Ingrid got messy and twitchy when she cooked. He kissed her hello, noticing the tightness of her mouth. She let herself be hugged, head falling onto his shoulder, arms limp by her sides.

"What's wrong? If you're worried about Sam, he's doing better."

"That's good. I was worried." Ingrid pushed her long hair off her shoulder. "A man was here. Asking about you and Sam."

His blood ran cold and his stomach seized with a terror he hadn't expected. For a second he couldn't speak. Dean had been so arrogant to think that he covered his tracks flawlessly. Obviously, he hadn't and his father had finally tracked them down. Did he leave a name?"

Ingrid shook her head, brown eyes buzzing with anxiety.

Dean figured he wouldn't. "He didn't say. He just said that he was a friend and he was worried about Sam. H-he was tall…um, in a flannel shirt and a green camo jacket. He had dark hair and scruff. He looked old enough to be your father, Dean. I assumed that's who it was."

"Yeah, you're probably right." Dean could think of twenty hunters that fit the same vague description. Neither Dean nor Sam had a picture of John to show Ingrid. He shook his head, giving life to the overwhelming disbelief. When was this going to end?

"Did he…did he scare or threaten you?"

She shook her head. "He seemed quite nice actually. I don't think he knew I had mace in my pocket." She laughed, but it was cold and shook with the inevitable question. It came a few beats later in a regretful whisper, "You're gonna blow town, now right? Move on somewhere else?"

He sank into the kitchen chair and dropped his head in his hands. His breaths came in impatient pulls of air, and he hated himself for not anticipating this. The plan that he had crafted, the one that he had been so proud of, had been downgraded to a lofty idea and the picture of Dean's healthier, happier little brother was dashed to something painfully unattainable. Happiness always was for the Winchesters.

"It looks like we have to. M-maybe we'll only have to be gone for a few days, and if he comes back, you can tell him that we left."

Ingrid was a little pale and she sat easily on Dean's lap, looking at the earrings Sam had given her. She put them on, eyes wet and cheeks red. "I don't want you to leave."

"I don't want to either, but…"

"But Sam's more important." She said resolutely.

Dean pulled back, taking in her face that was all dramatic eyeliner and soft features. He was so bewildered by the trepidation and uncertainty, and yet beyond that, deeper and stronger was the gentle glimmer of love. He kissed her then, hard and urgent because she understood.

_She got it. _

Dean hugged her tightly, hands tangling in her hair before he backed out of the kitchen and started packing.

It took them longer to pack than it normally did. The months off the road with a closet and a room of their own had afforded them the luxury of materialism. Sammy had a pretty impressive collection of books, a bureau full of clothes and even a magazine subscription in his name. His little brother sniffled as he packed, and it broke Dean's heart. Sam was leaving the only home he'd ever known, the only permanent address he'd ever had.

Dean shifted, hating himself for making them leave again. "This is…just a precaution, Sam. I'm being paranoid. You'll be back in school in a few days. You're suspended anyway, right?"

Sam dragged his arm across his face and gave another wet sniffle. "What if he finds us? Would that be a bad thing?"

Dean pierced him with a pointed look. "You want Dad to find us?"

He appeared sick at the thought but then his face hardened into an expression of defiance that went further than normal teenage angst. "He can't make me do anything I don't want to do. Never again, Dean."

Dean wasn't sure if Sam was underestimating their father's dedication to the quest and his now twisted methods of keeping them safe, but he understood the audacious anger and rebellion.

There was nothing else to say, so they finished packing in silence—filling their once-forgotten duffels all the while knowing that they were going to leave more possessions behind.

-6-

They left an hour later; Dean was dragging his feet and Sam was pretending he wasn't crying with Ingrid on the couch. He kept repeating—for his sake and for Sam's—that they would only be gone for a few days, but the air was heavy with finality. They straggled out, exhausted by the emotions of the past few days, and headed the Charger that Dean would probably dump in a few days. He brushed his fingers over the sleek black paint. He'd put a lot of love into the car, worked out his frustration by tinkering under the hood and rebuilding the front fender with his own hands. He didn't know if he could give it up.

Just as they got into the car, a huge pick-up truck with a rumbling Diesel engine hurtled into the driveway, boxing them in.

Brilliantly too-bright headlights shined into the car. Sam and Dean both squinted at the light. Sam's eyes were widen and buzzing frenetically. "Oh God, Dean."

"I know, Sam, I know. Get back in the house and lock the door!"

Except a figure had already climbed down from the truck, burly and shadowed in the cool Texas night.

The hard-edged defiance that Sam had displayed earlier blunted into palpable terror—the same unabashed fear that had driven Dean away from his father months ago. Desperate to protect him, he pushed Sam's head down in the seat and gave him the keys. "If this gets bad, you know where to go. I'll find you after."

With a fleeting prayer for courage, Dean Winchester turned to face the ominous figure just as he ventured into the light.


	7. Chapter 7

Hello, all! I know posting here has been difficult for the past few weeks. It irks me, but it's also keeping me in line because as much as I love this story, I'm always tempted and sidetracked by new plot bunnies. So at least this giant website malfunction is keeping me on the straight and narrow!

I did say that the next chapter would be the last for this tory, but if I put everything needed into one chapter would be ridiculously long. Thus, I'm giving y'all one more chapter of Raising Winchester before the end! It is a little short, but the end will not be.

Thanks again to everyone who has alerted, reviewed and read this story. I love y'all for hanging in!

Please let me know what you think!

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****Chapter Seven**

At fifteen, Dean Winchester had been shot—a through and through to the thigh—and endured treatment in a grimy cabin where a doctor with cataract-gray eyes stitched him up.

At sixteen, he had killed a werewolf with one bullet left and perfect aim.

At seventeen, he had been lowered headfirst into a dank cave believed to be the lair of a chupacabra, because no one else would fit.

At eighteen, Dean had been trapped in the woods with three blood-thirsty vampires and had beheaded them all.

At nineteen, squinting in the headlights of the enormous truck, he faced a new kind of fear, one that pulsed in the very marrow of his bones, because all those times, his father had backed him up (and Sammy had been tucked out of harm's way) and Dean had been so naïvely sure that nothing truly bad would come to him as long as John Winchester was on point.

Nevertheless, Dean stood strong while a figured cloaked in foreboding darkness approached with the crunch of gravel and a loping gait. Cold beads of sweat licked down his back as the hairs on the back of his neck stood erect, charged with an electric trepidation, a concentrated, intense terror that Dean had never felt before. It left him feeling dumb and paralyzed with fear, toes curling in his boots, rooted in the spot a few feet away from the Charger, where Sam remained hidden.

The knowledge of his brother's proximity spurred him on, because while his fear was all-encompassing and pervasive, Sam's was worse—rocketing up the traumas of Doozies. He took two tentative steps forward, and watched as the light gave life to a face, pale, pock-mocked skin, stubbly beard and flannel shirt, just as Ingrid had described.

But she hadn't mentioned the grizzly beard or the trucker cap and the distinct lack of leather. It was _Bobby Singer_, not John Winchester.

Relief was a delightful surge of release as Dean's whole body deflated and ropes of taut muscle went lax. His guard was still on red alert as he watched the old family friend's face for any vestige of deceit or ill-will, knowing full well that Bobby's pokerface rivaled a statue's.

"State your business," Dean said with a cold-edge to his voice that was all bluster.

Bobby stopped in mid-stride, the indifferent mask sliding off to reveal the fatherly figure beneath. "I just wanted to see you, boy." Bobby said honestly. "It's been too long."

Dean refused to back up, but bristled hotly to stop Bobby's approach. He could hear the springs of the Charger squeaking lightly as Sam moved inside the car.

"I know you're a touch skittish, but I'm not gonna haul you back to your daddy."

"What do you want then?" Dean hissed, low and deadly. "We're not your concern anymore."

_There. _He discovered the chink in the hunter's impressive armor. Bobby's eyes flashed with a paternal pain that blindsided Dean.

He bumped up the brim of his cap and rubbed at his forehead with a bit of distress. "I know Sam got the stank-end of the dog in all this, but I swear, Dean, on the soul of my sweet Karen, that I had nothing to do with what John pulled."

The headlights still cut through the black of the night, and Dean could see, with clear-eyed scrutiny, that Bobby was telling the truth. He didn't look like the menacing threat he had before, but the man who was always a touch kinder, more patient and more loving than John Winchester. The man who'd given them a home and an obstacle course of old cars to play with during the summers. The man who could reign in their father when he climbed too far in the bottle and fell too far into the chasm of grief.

"Sam is my priority right now. I'm not going back until he's ready, and even then I don't know," Dean replied, offering honesty of his own. "He wasn't the only one who got betrayed."

"I understand that, kid. You're driving the bus here. I'm just askin' to be let on." Bobby assured him. "We need to talk. And I'd like to see Sam. It's been too long."

Dean glanced back to the car. Sam was hunched in the seat, watching the exchange intensely. "It's up to him."

Dean headed over to the car and knocked on the window of the door he knew was locked. Sam rolled the window down a crack. "It's just Bobby. And he swore up and down that he knew nothing about what happened. He's just checkin' in. You have veto power here, Sammy. I'm not forcing you to do anything."

Sam looked skittish and skeptical. He tore at his thumbnail with his teeth. Dean could almost hear his intelligent little brother thinking and analyzing, trying to sort out the logic from the fear. It took a few minutes, but Sam shook his head, eyes shining. "I…can't."

He nodded in immediate support, even though the boulder in the pit of his stomach grew. Seeing Bobby again, and knowing that he was still the same wry, shrewd hunter who loved them as if they were his own, made Dean ache for him to stay and take the wheel for awhile. Dean was frazzled and exhausted and he just needed a minute to catch his breath. But Sam was calling the shots on anything related to his attack, and Dean had to respect his wishes. He ushered Sam out of the car and pushed him towards the house, where Ingrid was waiting inside with her mace.

Bobby didn't move, but the second Sam chanced a glance at the older man, he nodded curtly, eyes fixed on him. "Good to see you healthy, Sam."

He pressed closer to Dean, but looked at him fully. His feet skidded and slowed on the loose gravel before Sam abruptly broke away and ran to Bobby. He launched himself at the older man so hard he knocked the trucker cap off his head. Surprise on Bobby's face morphed into love that softened his lined faced. "I missed you, too, kid."

Dean smiled and headed towards the two. "You wanna come inside? It's a long drive from South Dakota."

Bobby nodded, arm still slung around Sam's shoulders. "Definitely. We need to catch up and clarify some things."

They started for the house. "Clarify what?" Sam asked curiously.

Bobby clapped him on the shoulder and followed him up the creaky stairs. "Well, Sam, your daddy's in jail."

-7-

And that was how Sam, Dean and Bobby had ended up sitting around Ingrid's faux-wood coffee table, drinking sweating glasses of ice tea. Bobby, God love him, explained without bring prompted.

"Your daddy scorched the earth tryin' to find you boys. I guess he taught you pretty well about living off-grid. Good job with those phone calls to Pastor Jim, Caleb and me," Bobby chuckled. "He'd driven more than a thousand miles before he realized you were shinin' him. Serves him right. Anyway, he'd pulled himself off the hunt to find you boys. The longer y'all stayed gone, the more desperate he got. And when men like your daddy get desperate, they get sloppy. He got popped on credit card fraud, resisting arrest and a few other things, and was sent up the river in Pennsylvania." Bobby cracked his knuckles. "The prison's minimum security, it's freakin' Hawaii compared the hell he was living in and he'll be out in a six to nine months. He screwed up, boys, and he knows it."

Sam was pale-faced and quiet and Dean felt as he'd been pile-driven by a linebacker. He was winded and his chest ached.

Dean was trying to remember what words were, and the proper order they went in, when Sam spoke up. His voice was thready, his eyes wide with shock. "How'd you find us?"

"Those emergency credit cards John gave you boys are tied to my legit account. I didn't want you two carrying stolen cards and neither did John. I've known where y'all were from the get-go, thanks to a concerned lady at Visa."

Bobby was always five steps ahead of even the best hunters, Dean was used to that, but anger flashed within him, strong, bright, yet fleeting, at the notion that Bobby had known where they were the entire time. He wondered how many times the old man had swung by just to check up on them. "_'Good to see you healthy_,'" Dean quoted Bobby's earlier greeting.

Bobby didn't even blink. "I've tailed Sam a few times after I shook your daddy. When I'd heard about what they did to you, Sam, I had to see it with my own eyes. I'm so sorry, kid. If I had known…it never would have happened."

Sam waved him off. "I'd never really thought that you knew…we just knew that we'd be found if we went to you." He was nibbling on his thumbnail again and this time, his knees were shaking in time to Dean's racing heart. "So…Dad's in jail?" He grimaced in Dean's direction.

He was nauseous at the thought of his dad behind bars, locked in a cage. It seemed like an impossibility for a larger-than-life man like John Winchester to be herded by guards and steel. Although Dean still hadn't been able to reconcile the heroic image of his father with the twisted, crazed stranger he'd left in a hotel room in Iowa, so Dean figured this would take some time.

"Don't worry about him. He'll be all right. He needs the time to dry out, and pay for his crimes. Sometimes blessings come in pretty ugly packaging."

Ingrid tiptoed in the room, wearing the flip-flops she wore off-stage, red sequined bikini, fishnets and rhinestoned devil ears. She pulled a trenchcoat on over her costume and ventured over to Dean. She kissed him gently and wiping the smudge of her candy apple red lipstick from his top lip. Sam got a gently embrace and a big red lips on his forehead. "Stop by the club before you do anything, Samuel. I wanna make sure you're okay." He assured her he would. She sashayed into the kitchen to bring out the carafe of tea and a platter of sandwiches she'd packed for Dean and Sam's trip. She winked at Bobby before slipping out the door.

It was a rarity to see Bobby Singer smitten, but his cheeks darkened with crimson as Ingrid's perfume lingered in the air, and then he smiled like a Chesire cat. "I see y'all are doing just fine on your own."


	8. Chapter 8

Argh! Hi! I'm back and somehow I'm still not done with this story. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing, because I love writing it and but I hate torturing poor little Sammy. I ran into a few minor writer's blocks but I finally worked around them. Thanks for all of the feedback and alerts and of course, your patience.

So excited Supernatural was renewed for another season!

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**Chapter 8**

They didn't visit John.

They knew where he was, of course, and Dean figured he probably could have broken out if he wanted to (having broken _into_ some places with much higher secure to steal artifacts and sometimes painkillers). Sam hadn't mentioned it. Dean wasn't sure if he could stand seeing his father in prison orange, so they didn't even speak of it.

Sam went to school; Dean went to work.

They trained in the afternoons before dinner, running on the school's track in the blazing sun and sparring in the backyard. Sam was still painfully scrawny, but he wouldn't be for long. There was a new ferocity and violence to his fighting now. It was almost frightening, and moved with a lethal grace that wasn't there before. And while they trained, Sam giving as good as he got, Dean had a sickening thought: Doozies might have given Sam the edge he needed. In moments when Sam would have panicked, the kid just dug his heels in and fought harder. He'd gotten creative, using his long limbs and wiry frame to his advantage.

He stopped acting like it a practice and started playing like it was The Big Game.

And that would keep Sam breathing for years to come.

Ill, Dean dropped the punch mitts, narrowly missing get caught by Sam's left cross and staggered away from the teen and started walking in the blazing sun. But nothing was hotter than the bile churning in his stomach or his heart pumping like a steam engine. It had been five grueling months of emotion and fear and this soul-changing responsibility of being the only true provider and caregiver for a damaged kid, and Dean had not once that that his father might have had a plan—a good reason for setting Sam up for Doozies.

Sam was big-hearted and kind and desperately wanted to find the good in everything, even monsters. And that kind of rose-colored naivety would get him gutted. Quickly.

Bobby was always five steps ahead, and Bobby had trained their father. John was a little more devil-may-care and took stupid risks, but John had his foresight and intuition. The two hunters were friends because they were like-minded vets with similar, grief-stricken pasts.

The heat scorching his blood was joined by a flutter of cold in his fingertips and his cheeks. He squatted in the field, and let the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions amplify until he was left in the eye of the storm, nothing but the crackle of static in his ears.

He heard Sam approach and wiped his face, trying to mold it into some semblance of composure. The kid knelt down and handed him a bottle of water.

Dean accepted it, but didn't drink. "I want to see Dad." He blurted out.

Sam's mouth snapped shut with an audible click. Grimacing, Dean glanced up at his brother, whose eyes were dark and murderous.

Sam took a few steps back, opening and closing his mouth and sputtered to speak, but it was clear he didn't know what to say. He paced around him, shaking his head. "I knew you were gonna do this."

"I'm not doing anything…"

"Bull! I knew the second Bobby told us Dad was in jail, you'd want to run back, like a good little soldier." Sam snarled, snatching off his padded handwraps. "Damnit!"

Dean flinched at Sam's rage. The last thing he'd ever want to do is make his brother think that he was taking Dad's side, but he had to know. Sam had turned his back on him, and settled for panting loudly in front of him.

"Sammy, look at me," Dean beckoned. His voice was soft, but tremulous with fear. He was afraid Sam wouldn't forgive him.

Sam's unruly hair blew in a gust of hot hair as he turned his head over his shoulder. "If you want to go, then go. I can't stop you. I'm just the stupid kid who got his ass kicked. Why the hell should that matter?" His words were ugly in meaning and tremulous in delivery.

Dean stood up, emboldened by outrage of his own. "This whole thing, the past five months, have been for you! I kissed so much ass down at that school so you wouldn't get kicked out…I did that for YOU. I left the hunt and got a freakin' punch-a-clock, Joe Boring job for you! Because that's what you needed, Sam. I never asked questions or pushed you or did anything you didn't want because of what happened to you. Now, I have to do this. _For me_."

Sam whipped around to face him. He was ashen, and his young face was tight with pain. "_If you hadn't left, it never would have happened!_"

The bottle of water he'd been clutching fell from his fingers. The thumping cadence of his heart that had been throbbing in his ears abruptly vanished. His body that had been pulled rigid by anxiety and vacillation and worry suddenly went limp and Dean didn't know how he was still standing. Because all of this time, he hadn't even thought to consider that Sam blamed him. Dean wasn't sure what to say or where to go from there. He just knew that was he was extraordinarily tired. And the idea of being flat and quiet and dead to the world was better than standing in a small yard of dead grass in the sun and feeling the insurmountable burden of blame.

"I'm going to bed." Dean whispered and he staggered dumbly towards the house.

"Dean, wait…I didn't mean it…I…"

Sam's voice was cut off by the slamming of the door.

Dean borrowed one of Ingrid's sleeping pills and was unconscious for fourteen hours only waking up to horrifying screams. He blinked wearily in the dark, fisting the sheets that were coiled around him like serpents. His head felt swimmy and weightless and was still blissful devoid of coherent thought. He licked his lips, angling his body towards the wall, ready to slip off again when he heard a whimper and footfalls in the house. He sat up, closing his eyes as the darkness rolled and shifted with him. Woozily, he padded out of the bedroom and towards the light blurrily shining from the bedroom.

Peering inside, Sam was on the floor by the bed, sobbing into Ingrid's shoulder. The rumpled bedclothes on the floor and his sweaty hair were obvious signs of a nightmare.

Dean sighed and left the room. He got back in his bed and let Sam do what he needed. The duplex was small and he could hear Ingrid humming and asking him questions. Dean knew from his own scant experiences that some things could only be fixed by a maternal touch. It didn't take long for Sam to come back to himself, and soon he heard the creaking floor boards and rustling of cotton as they remade the bed. The rush of the faucet as Ingrid got him a glass of water. The click of the light as she left him to try to sleep again. The melodious voice promising that she was just down the hall.

Dean got up then and eased through the darkness. He slipped into the bed with Sam, lying on his back. They were inches apart yet it never seemed so far away.

"I'd do anything to make it better for you, Sammy. I would have done it myself if it meant you wouldn't have to." Dean confessed.

He felt Sam nod beside him. "I know."

Dean angled his body slightly to the right, towards Sam.

Sam's eyes were bright in the dark and Dean knew he was going to fight sleep with his newfound viciousness.

"When you go see Dad, I could go with you if you want."

Dean smiled. He knew a Winchester-brand apology when he heard it.

-8-

The prison wasn't the scariest place that Dean and Sam had been by far, yet the thunderous sound of the barred doors slamming shut with such permanence that Dean startled at every one. One of his worst fears was being trapped.

Luckily, minimum security prisons were more lax than the super-max prisons he'd seen on television. It was late morning on a Sunday and they had an hour in the visitor's gallery outside in the brisk, but sunny day. They even sat at tables instead of behind bulletproof glass. The guard's patrolled in towers and each twenty-foot fence was lined with a threatening coil of barbed wire, but Dean could already see the weak spots in security. John could have escaped any time he wanted, yet he'd served nearly half of his sentence.

Sam had decided to wait in the car. And Dean hadn't even asked if he wanted to come inside. He was just so unspeakably grateful that he'd came with him.

Dean sat outside shivering from the cold. He'd spent far too much time in Texas. He drummed his hands against the table and rattled his legs beneath it. Nervous didn't even remotely encapsulate how he felt. His heart pounded, feather-light, but rapidly. Nausea cramped his stomach.

He realized with breath-stealing gravity, that he wasn't ready. As much as he wanted to ask him questions and beat the hell out of him, he was suddenly sure that he couldn't do it right now. Dean Winchester had been so worried about taking care of Sam, and getting Sam from one day to the next, that he hadn't grieved or raged or dealt at all.

Panicked, he stood up, prepared to run out of the prison like any other sane person would do.

He managed to get three steps. A guard moved ambled around the corner, throwing his head back in laughter as he escorted a prisoner to the visitor's yard.

And there stood John Winchester in blazing prison orange and handcuffs, smirking like he'd just told the world's dirtiest joke. He walked unassisted, and gestured with his cuffed hands as if the manacles were merely a fashion statement.

Dean froze as if paralyzed by a ghoul's toxin. He stared, slack-mouth and dumb. John locked eyes on his first born, and the mischievous grin plummeted into an expression that probably mirrored Dean's.

Father and son stared at each other—one in elated disbelief; one in dread and incredulity.

It was the guard who broke the turbulent silence. "You know this kid, Winchester?"

John cleared his throat, and another smile crossed his face, one that was proud and gracious and rare. "Barry, this is my oldest son, Dean."

"Hey, Dean. Are you visiting your dad or…"

His answer was directed at his father. "Seems like you're having so much fun, I wouldn't want to interrupt." He seethed and started exit.

"Dean…wait…"

Dean ignored him and powered to the entrance. He couldn't do this.

He reached another solid steel door and blindly pulled at the handle, jerking it frantically when it wouldn't open. Distance had been the best idea. Out of sight, out of mind. It was something he prescribed to for years, and it definitely worked. "Can you let me out? NOW!" He asked impatiently to the guard on the other side of the door.

Footsteps approached, and John's voice was grumbly-soft behind him, vulnerable in a way it had never been before. "Is…did Sam come with you? Is he all right?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "This is obviously clearly the stupidest idea in the history of stupid ideas, so no, he didn't come. He's smarter than that."

The guard adjusted his hat. "Come on, kid, why don't we go out into the yard? We can't linger in the hall."

Dean didn't know why, but he relented. The prison guard led them to a back table. It was closer to the observation tower, but a distance away from the other visitor's. He released John from his handcuffs and left to patrol the yard. Dean crossed his arms over his chest. "You charmin' the guards now?"

He glared at his father, who had the nerve to be well-fed, healthy and relaxed.

"There was a vengeful spirit in C-block and I saved his bacon, so he cuts me some slack. But that's not important, Dean. Thank you for coming."

He shook his head. He was agitated and scared; it took all the self-control he had not to fidget or cower. John's presence was still as enormous as ever, except he didn't seem anything like Bobby had described. Dean wasn't sitting in front of a man burdened with grief or drying out from of drinking. He didn't seem like a distraught father who'd spent months searching for his runaway sons. "Do you even care that we left?" Dean blurted out.

His cavalier and carefree demeanor vanished, and lines of worry, regret and shame stripped his face. He dropped his gaze down to the tabletop. "There's nothing I can say or do to fix what I did, Dean. If there was, I would have said it, I would have done it."

John's chocolate brown eyes sparkled. He was going to cry. Enraged, Dean thumped his fist against the table. "This isn't about your pain or your regret. This is about Sam and about me. I only came here for one thing, and it wasn't to see you bawl like you're on _Oprah_."

Dean's father gritted his teeth and somehow managed to compose himself. "What do you want to know?"

Dean's cheeks were hot and his chest hurt from the intensity of this moment. He stared at his father, indignant and audacious. "Why?"

John blanched and shoulders dropping a fraction. Dean leaned forward, heart thundering, because he was retreating, and Winchesters didn't runaway. "Why what?"

"Why?" Dean menaced. "Why put Sam through that hell? Why ambush the kid? Why let him get beat to hell? I wondered that myself. And then I wondered if you'd expected something, if you were testing him."

John shook his head, gaze still locked to the weathered, gray tabletop. "_Dean, no_."

But Dean had just gotten started, and he felt some wonderful kind of pleasure in seeing his father squirm and pale at his questioning. It was a bittersweet victory to think that maybe he'd been right, and that his father had suspected something about Sam and wanted to test it like some shrink trying to bait a psychopath. Except Sam was the furthest thing from a killer or an evil person. For Dean, he was calm waters and laughter, a reason to fight and win, and a reason to smile.

It took a horrific trauma for Dean to realize that his little brother wasn't an albatross, he was the reason his mother had died—because she knew the world was better with him than without. He was Mary's last born, and the best thing in his life.

Dean pulsed with anger. "Why then? If I have to ask again, I'm leaving."

John's eyes ping-ponged back in forth, and Dean knew he was calculating options, biding time and formulating lies. "I needed to save him, Dean. I needed him to be strong."

"You let those goons beat him senseless. You didn't see him. Did you even look at him? He was covered in mud and his own blood. He was dirty and smelly. He had a fever. He was covered in bruises and scratches and _footprints_." He spat out the details easily because he remembered every welt and contusion.

John's gaze snapped to Dean's face and he looked nauseous as if he hadn't known what they had done. "You knew they were gonna go that far, right?"

"I wanted them to be thorough. To make sure he knew the exorcisms and could keep his head in a fight."

"WHY?" Dean asked again, pounding the table with emphasis. The noise caught the attention of the guards. They barked warnings and continued their patrol.

"You knew what I knew, Dean. He had his head in the clouds. He was always shirking off his training for the school paper or the basketball team. He wasn't focused. I was saving his life. You know that…I bet it finally clicked and you realized that I was right."

Dean could have punched him. He could see himself leaping across the table and lighting into John like a puma on a fawn. "Well, you certainly accomplished your goal. He has nightmares so bad he won't sleep for days afterwards. He barely speaks anymore…remember when he used to jabber on and on about this country and that president or the snobby book he was reading? He doesn't do that anymore," Dean detailed as tears gathered in his own eyes. "He's violent now. He beat a kid half to death because the stupid punk grabbed him from behind and all he could think of was that night that Daddy got him abducted. He doesn't dream anymore either. He used to talk about being a teacher or a cop or a lawyer or a chef, but he's so busy trying to white-knuckle it through each day, he doesn't have the energy anymore."

"Shut up," John whispered.

Dean wiped at his face, crying and not even caring, because he was tired and Sam was broken. "No. You were right. So you should enjoy this victory." He paused and let it truly sink in. "This has been my life since I left, putting Sam back together."

John's muscles tensed, locking underneath the terrible orange his prison garbs. "Sam was…there was a demon in Sam's nursery when your mother was killed. I needed to know if it…I needed to know, Dean."

"Know what?"

It was with a thunderclap that Dean realized the impossible and the preposterous and the ugly. He was sickened by what his dad was too cowardly to say: he thought the demon had done something to Sam, had cursed him or tainted him or marked him. And he'd held on to that thought for fifteen years, waiting for the right time to test his theories. "You're disgusting."

He shot up from the table, rattling with something more volatile than rage. It was akin to lava searing through his veins.

John grabbed his son's arm to keep him there. Dean shrugged off the touch as he clamored to his feet. "I shouldn't have come. And I won't come again. You try to find us, and I'm going to the police and you won't go to Camp Cupcake on child abuse charges."

"It's happened before, Dean. There's lore…about kids encountering demons and changing. In really bad ways. That thing was there for Sam, not Mary. I was trying to save him."

Dean whirled around. His chest and shoulders ached as his entire body worked and vibrated with the suddenly impossible effort to breathe. "Save him? YOU LOST HIM!" Dean cried. "That was your son. You're supposed to protect him, not feed him to thugs. Did he pass your tests? Are you positive he's not the anti-Christ? Because I could have told you that. I would have told you when he was two and Sam knew all of the colors. I could have told you when he was seven and doing _algebra_. I could tell you when he was ten and so upset that he couldn't remember Mom that he cried for a week. You're his father, and you don't even know him."

John stood up, too. He was dry-eyed, unlike Dean, but the same nausea that Dean felt twisted his rugged face. "I read the lore, about kids who encountered this demon changing and killing, and I panicked. It was bad enough that I lost Mary…I couldn't lose my kid, Dean."

Dean backpedaled, swiping the tears off his face. "The joke's on you because lost them both."

"Dean…"

He stuffed his sunglasses over his eyes. "Don't look for us."

Dean barely remembered the trip to the car, only that the guard had escorted him the entire way, asking if he was okay. He seemed like a nice man and Dean had the insane wish that he had been his son, so he and Sam could have grown up in one of this beautiful brick houses in Pennsylvania with a dog and a yard and a mother and they'd never have to know that evil existed. He slid into the driver's seat of the Charger, wishing for any life except the one he had. Sam was a quiet presence beside him, sliding his bookmark between the pages and focusing on his brother. Dean felt brittle and weak, a broken vase that had been shoddily put back together. A swift wind or the wrong word would destroy him, and Sam didn't need to deal with Dean's mess on top of everything else.

Dean held up a shaking hand, gesturing that he needed a minute. Sam sighed and slid over in the vinyl seat. He slid his arm around Dean's shoulders, pulling him into an awkward hug.

Dean had mastered the art of crying silently when he was four and his mother hadn't come out of a house that had been consumed in fire, but the sobs were anything but quiet now. They were whimpering and mewing, ripe with pain and pregnant with betrayal.

Sam was solid against him, strong in a way he hadn't been before. "You've done a great job, Dean. Thank you."

Dean just hiccupped and sighed inaudible sobs into his little brother's collar and trying to reign himself in.

Sam gave him another few minutes before he muttered, "So Dad's an ass, huh?"

To his surprise, he sputtered with laughter. "'Lil bit, yeah."

He patted Dean's shoulder. "Good," he slid his book under the seat, "because I have some things to say."

Dean fisted Sam's jacket, pulling him back into the car. "Sam, no. Let's just go."

Sam leveled him with a stubborn glare, lifting his eyebrows for emphasis. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared heatedly at the prison. Dean's heart fluttered with a raw warmth: Sam was trying to protect his honor. He was angry that Dad had made Dean cry. He wiped his face with the rough sleeve of his jacket and sat up further in the car, thankful the sunglasses covered his splotchy eyes. "I'm okay, Sam. You don't have to."

"Yes, I do. This won't take long…and I can't ask you to come back in there."

"You don't need to."

Together, they re-entered the prison. The guard seemed a bit flummoxed at the sight of another Winchester, but he smiled and set them up at the same table again. Sam stood in the prison yard, hands in his pockets, waiting. John walked back out and stumbled over his own feet at the shock of seeing Sam standing there, eyes blazing. And Dean could see it now, how much Sam had changed, the inches he'd grown, and the muscle he'd put on; how different he looked. The soft babyface had given way to awkward angles of approaching adulthood. John's baby son was no more.

John opened his mouth, but Sam cut him off. "Sit down and listen."

"Sam…"

Sam turned his back on John to sit at the table. He clasped his hands calmly in front of him and waited in steely silence.

"Shut up," Sam said softly. There was an eerie fatality to his tone that belied his passive demeanor. "I am done being burdened by what you did to me. I am going to sit down and tell you what happened and then I'm going to forgive you for it. Because I need to move on. Sit down."

John sat, and Sam began telling the horrible story for the very last time.


	9. Chapter 9

Wow, I'm finally finished. I can't believe it. This story started out as an tiny idea and grew into something I'm very proud of as writer. It challenged me as a writer, because I did not want to write this part. I know Sam Winchester isn't real, but I hated putting him through this, fleshing it out and making it real. It made my stomach hurt, and I avoided it for months, as most of you know. Thanks so much for sticking around and forcing me to finish it.

I won't keep you any longer. Please let me know what you think. I love reviews.

* * *

**Chapter 9**

_"Shut up," Sam said softly. There was an eerie fatality to his tone that belied his passive demeanor. "I am done being burdened by what you did to me. I am going to sit down and tell you what happened and then I'm going to forgive you for it. Because I need to move on. Sit down."_

_John sat, and Sam began telling the horrible story for the very last time..._

-9-

Sam didn't miss Dean.

He figured he would have been counting the seconds until Dean had come home from Pastor Jim's, because he and Dad could barely speak without igniting an argument, but two days in and they were having fun. Bonding.

Sam's cheeks hurt from laughing and he pushed his soda out of the way, leaning over the rickety table of the dinner in order to catch his breath. "Dad, stop, seriously?"

John looked so different when he was smiling. It was a rare occasion, but the act cut years and hardness off his deeply lined face. His eyes sparkled, and even in his blood-stained flannel and with his whiskered chin, he looked kind and friendly. Not like a soldier or a widower, but a father and a friend. "She cussed my mother up one side and down the other. It was a sight to behold. She was fearless, Sammy."

Sam was once again overcome with that ghostly wistfulness inside him. He never remembered his mother and he loved hearing the stories, but there was always a hole carved out of him, a void that memories and pictures would never quite fill. It was bittersweet, because he didn't have the cope with the pain of her death, but hadn't been blessed with the joy of her life. "She sounds like Dean." Sam said still smiling.

John drained his iced tea, and balled his napkin up. "There's no denying that Mary spit Dean out. And don't you ever tell him I said this, but he's just as pretty as she was. God, they handed that kid to me and the doctor said it was a boy and I didn't believe him he was so pretty. I checked. Twice."

The teenager howled.

John sobered, but the lively gleam never left his eyes. "Dean has Mary's attitude, her spunk, but Sammy, you have her heart."

Sam's cheeks flushed and he ducked his head.

His expression tightened with seriousness and meaning. "You have her strength. Sam, you can do anything, survive anything. I know you make Mary very proud."

He stared at the vacant seat next to John and wondered what it would have been like if she was there.

He was tired of empty chairs.

"But she's dead because of me."

"She died _for_ you, Sam, there's a difference. She'd do it again. So would I and so would Dean. In an instant."

John checked his watch. "Come on, Sam. We're going to be late for the movie if we don't leave now."

John paid at the counter and left the dinner, draping his arm around his son like he usually did with Dean. The stars were brilliant in the sky, and both Winchesters craned their heads upwards to behold them, wondering if an angel named Mary was looking down on them.

-9-

Sam flopped onto his stomach, curling into the cold spot in the bed and hunkering down for a well-earned night of sleep. Their motel room was briskly cold like he liked it, and though Dean wasn't there, Sam was put at ease by quiet activities of his father—the clink of his mug hitting the table as he researching, the precise scratches of his pen on the paper, the shift of a rag over metal as he cleaned the guns. It was a Winchester lullaby, and Sam was soon fast asleep.

His eyes snapped open a seemingly a second later to the splintering of wood. Groggy, he listened, and it took him far too long to pinpoint that the sounds were of the door being forced off its hinges. Before he could even think to react, rough hands seized him with bruising force and hauled him out of bed. Panic was nitrogen in his veins and a cold, stupefying fog in his brain. Time had ceased its leisurely slow crawl and leapt into a frenetic stream of chaos and violence. By the time Sam realized what was happening—that he was being _taken_—he was already face down on his stomach, arms twisted behind his back. He grunted and fought as handcuffs were snapped over his wrists. His heart raged inside him and the intense fear threatened to paralyze him completely. Sam closed his eyes, grounding himself and trying to focus on his training.

_Cowering is easy; fighting back takes courage_.

When he opened his eyes, Sam concentrated on what he could see: six pairs of boots milling silently around the room. Two men hovered over him and he tried to assemble his courage as he was hefted upright. As soon as his feet hit the floor, he lashed out, kicking one of the men in the stomach and checking the other with the brunt of his body. This wasn't like sparring with Dean. His bare foot ached from the blow, and all three men out-matched him in weight, height and experience. When he rammed into the thug, it felt like he'd willingly collided with a brick wall. The masked man was barely fazed by the blow and he retaliated in a blur of black. Sam heard the backhanded slap before he felt it and he sent him reeling to the side, and he was flying. The teenager smashed into the popcorn-textured wall with such force that whimsical neon blobs exploded in front of his eyes and his ribs rattled excruciatingly against his lungs. He slid bonelessly down the wall he'd been tossed into, unable to fight back as they knelt in front of him again. His head was lifted by a callous yank of his shaggy hair and it was then that he noticed John's disheveled and empty bed.

"Dad?" Sam gasped.

At first he thought that the fear of not finding his father had shorted out his vision, but when he felt a knot tighten behind his head, Sam knew that he'd been blindfolded. The lack of sight left him disoriented and defeated. The blow to the head made him sleepy and sick. He panted roughly as he was heaved off the ground. Instead of fighting, Sam concentrated on the details. A shock of cold told him he was being hauled out into the Iowa night. The husky slide of a door said the vehicle they were putting him in was a van.

Whoever was carrying him sat him down more gently than he expected. The van dipped when the man, who smelled like beef jerky and tobacco, climbed in after him. The door was shut and the van peeled off.

"Where's my dad?" Sam asked meekly.

No one spoke.

Sam tested the cuffs, his shoulders already throbbing from their tightness.

"Where's my dad?" He echoed with more bravado.

"He can't help you now, kid. Shut up," a nasty voice replied.

Sam opened his mouth to threaten and bolster like Dean, but his head snapped to the side by another vicious blow. He tumbled in the back of the trundling van, and landed on his stomach. The man parroted his inquiries to his fellow thugs. Confident his father was dead, Sam was overwhelmed by it all—the fear, the pain, the humiliation. He left the rocking of the van, the smell of his own blood and allowed the cruel laughter of his captors devastate him completely.

-8-

The next thing Sam remembered he was heaving. He whimpered, tasting bile in his mouth and tried to sit up, but his arms were bound behind him and his hands felt bloated and swollen. He couldn't open his eyes and he thrashed, confused and scared. And he remembered being kidnapped, succumbing to shock. His stomach churned with new violence and he bucked again, breath sailing through him, heart clamored.

His hair was snatched again, twisting his neck at a painful angle. "_Stop_."

"Sick," Sam grunted.

"For God's sake…"

The van wasn't moving, Sam noticed, as he was pulled out and into the cold. He threw up, almost pleased with himself when the guy cursed and shoved Sam away.

"Can't see." Sam managed.

A second later, bluish-white light burned his eyes. Sam squinted and blinked rapidly. He caught garbled snatches of naked trees and a deserted interstate; a sign that read "Cabins 13 thru 20" and picnic tables.

Escape was a possibility. Sam gagged again, retching with spirit into the frosty ground. He made a show of coughing as disgustingly as he could and stole a glance at his guard. The man was about 5'7'', stocky and a younger than Sam imagined. The van was empty.

_You take any option you have to get out, to save lives. There's no such thing as fighting dirty when it comes to saving lives._

Harnessing his fury, Sam kicked his captor as hard as he could between the legs. The man keeled over with a strangled gurgle. The young man hesitated, eyes darting between the downed man and the driver's seat. He was gathering his breath, trying to scream. And Sam knew he had no choice. Even though these men had taken him and probably killed his father, it took more nerve than he'd ever imagined to knock him out cold with a kick to the face. He did it, because his life depended on it, and he turned to the trees and ran. It was an awkward, loping run with his arms behind his back, but Sam didn't care. He nearly wept with glee as he ducked into the forest and out of sight.

He kept running, panting wildly, spurred on not by bewildering fear, but by the satisfaction that he had gotten away. He felt it happening, the years of training were taking over, and Sam let it happen. He trudged forward tried to formulate a plan. The first thing he needed to do was get the cuffs off.

A cramp speared him low in his belly, and Sam bended over, fingers flexing behind his back. He tried to breathe through it, to keep going, but the pain snowballed, driving Sam to his knees. His eyes watered and his head swam. The frigid cold of twilight needled easily through his light t-shirt. The adrenaline was wearing off, Sam thought, as the forest began to spin and bob around him.

_Combat is hard on the body. Go to ground as soon as it's over, self-assess with your eyes and hands. Don't always trust how you feel, because adrenaline can mask injuries._

Sam gave himself a minute to re-inflate his lungs and to allow his heart rate to slow from its painful gallop. Carefully, he eased himself to his feet, and compromised with an aggressive walk instead of a frenetic run.

He didn't know how long it took for him to reach a cabin. It would probably be a tranquil refuge in the summer, with its bare flower boxes already sprouting tulips, and view of the rolling with its darkened windows and rotted porch boards, the house seemed reassuring at the most basic level. It was shelter, a place to hide.

Sam sloshed through the ribbons of icy snow and mud towards the stepping stones of the cabin. He was already disturbingly tired, eyes closing on their own accord. It was weird to be sleepy when he was running for his life, and it made him laugh hoarsely. Reality was slipping and hysteria seeped in. Sam was tempted to let it. Because in reality, his father was probably dead and he'd be following him soon. Ensuing madness, with its whimsical hallucinations and insulated detachment, seemed like the better choice.

Woozy, Sam slipped over his own shuffling feet and fell, unchecked, into the hard rocky ground. With dulled reflexes and hands cuffed behind him, he never had the chance to twist his body and he landed square on his chin in an explosion of agony and blood as his teeth sank into his tongue. Hysteria surrendered to a semi-conscious twilight as felt his eyes rolling back and pain thundering in his head. Stubbornness and lessening fear kept him conscious and he rolled onto his back with a graceless flail of his legs and sheer will.

"Pathetic," Sam gasped into the din of chirping birds.

He'd not only managed to almost knock himself out, but now he was covered in slick mud. He felt it sluicing down his pants and his arms.

His eyes widened.

The cuffs slipped just an inch lower on his wrist.

With newfound vigor, Sam pushed himself into a sitting position and leaned back, coating his arms in mud. His tongue flicked out of his mouth as he concentrated on painting his arms and hands. The teenager didn't know how much precious time he wasted or how many layers of skin he scrapped over, but finally, wonderfully, the handcuffs slid off one wrist.

It was all Sam needed. His consequent freedom invigorated him, and stood up, darting into the cabin, hoping to find a phone. A quick scan through all of the windows show that it was abandoned and Sam left, running down the trail with the long-legged stride he'd perfected in soccer practice. He remembered the sign he saw when he first broke away from his captors, Cabins 13 thru 20—it had to mean Sam was in the middle of a tourist locale. While it wasn't the height of the season, optimism powered him on as there had to be a main office if not one person renting a cabin with a phone. Sam ran, checking five more cabins only to find them empty, until the sun was high in the sky and temperature rose well above freezing. He ran until his legs refused to hold him and cramps seized nearly his entire body.

"Shit!" Sam cursed. He'd forgotten to find water, and it was too late now. He needed to rest just for a little bit.

He felt the hissing pain of developing blisters making his feet uncomfortably tight in his shoes. The discomfort was one of many. He walked down, eyes scanning the base of fat trees and the hollows of logs for a place to hide. A gigantic tree had fallen, some years ago, leaving a knobby tangle of powerful roots. It had been mounded over with abandoned birds' nests and with a little work from Sam, it was a perfect place of concealment, albeit dank and smelly. He tucked his legs close to his chest, noticing not for the first time that he had shoes on even though he'd been taken from slumber. It should have struck him as odd, but Sam didn't have the energy to care. His head swam, his body ached, his heart was broken, splintered from the absence of his big brother and obliterated by the disappearance of his father. And it was ridiculously easy to let it all go.

-9-

Voices startled Sam from slumber and he jolted awake with the rapidfire cadence of his heart and strained to hear what was being said, if he recognized the voices.

He did.

"He's a kid for Christ's sakes, he couldn't have gotten this far!"

"No one woulda thought that he'd take Jimmy down but he did. Spread out and find that little bastard."

Sam eased out of his hole, grateful that his own body's magic elixir of adrenaline was overriding the dehydration and the bruises. He inched over the snarled, dead roots of the tree and scanned the perimeter. He saw two garbled shapes of men in the distance and one in the middle, holding a bloody rag to his face. It was the one Sam had disabled hours earlier.

_Run._

In a flutter of leaves, Sam took off, leaning low to avoid detection but focusing more on speed than stealth. Twenty strides later, he heard the screams, and he willed himself to move faster. The forest was nothing but a blur of tree-bark brown trunks, and gray-blue sky. Bitter wind streaked across his face and made his eyes water, but Sam kept going. Quite literally running for his life. He thought he was putting life-saving distance between him and his kidnappers and tossed a glance over his shoulder to check. When he turned his head back, the snatch of blue camouflage was all the warning he got before he rammed into a solid body and fell backwards, a victim of his own forward movement. He smashed into the detritus, and felt every branch, rock and root tearing and bruising his skin. The world disappeared for a second, cutting off like a television.

He crawled on his hands and knees. His pitiful and futile retreat incited laughter from his captors. A foot landed in his ribs. Another in his thigh. Another in his chest. He cried out, begging with no shame for them to stop, for someone to help him. He may have screamed for his brother.

The onslaught finally ceased, and he pushed up again, doggedly inching towards freedom.

A boot stomped on his back, flattening him completely.

"Get him up!"

Sam was hauled to his feet, even though he gasped for breath and spit blood. Once he was upright, the men released him, seemingly content to play with their prey. His eyes danced to each member of the gauntlet. He didn't know what they were waiting for. Confused, Sam backed up a few steps. The men watched him with eerie curiosity.

"You knocked my teef out, you little shit." Jimmy hissed in outrage. He also walked like a pregnant woman, still feeling Sam's powerful kick to his manhood.

Sam shook his head, feeling sick as he beheld the man's puffed face and missing front teeth. "I'm…ss-sorry." He clamored, desperate.

The hulking man in the camo and a skull cap chortled, crossing his arms over his chest. His partner did not.

They were taunting him. They thought he was pathetic and weak. Sam's fists clenched at his sides and rage churned inside him, molten and fiery. "You snatched me from my bed…what should I have done?"

Even with his busted lips and missing teeth, Jimmy smiled like a chesire cat. "Better, kid."

It was foolish and cowardly to try to run again, but Sam couldn't let himself be taken. He knew he wouldn't survive it. He darted to the left, but the men closed in, tightening the circle.

Before Sam could react, Jimmy had crossed the distance between him and dropped him to his knees with a powerful uppercut, and then smashed his fist in his face. Sam's head rocked to the side he tumbled to the ground, feeling like a bomb had been detonated behind his right eye. Pain rippled from his face to tips of his toes.

A shadow loomed over him like a phantom, blotting out the sun and the trees. Hands wrapped around his throat, crushing and choking. Panic rocketed out of him, feral and primal. Sam forgot his training, about escapes and holds and close-quarter combat. He only knew that he desperately needed to oxygen, and he wasn't getting any. His eyes were bulging like overfilled balloons and the ugly, pulped face hovering over him was taking on an ethereal gleam.

Sammy clawed and scratched, legs kicking and tearing up the ground with useless fury. A horrible sound, like that of a dying pig, filling his ears over the staccato thumping of his heart. It took awhile before Sam realized the sounds were coming from him.

Weakness seeped into his limbs like poison. It was a pervasive, nefarious shroud, overtaking him completely.

Sam's hands thudded strengthlessly against his attack's corded arms. A few agonizing beats later, he lost his body entirely, thoughts ebbing from _fightfightfight _to absolutely nothing but the lethal pressure and the unbearable agony of suffocation.

The pain abated, passages opened...and someone was gathering him up, tendering tucking his limp arms over his body before lifting Sam completely. "Hang in there, kid. It's almost over."

Mercifully, Sam passed out.

-9-

An electric shock of fluid cold jarred Sam from the painless abyss of black. A scream tore through his swollen throat before he even opened his eyes.

When he did, cold water flowed in, rendering his eyes gritty and blurry. He gasped and coughed, trying to behind over and writhe, but found that his body was held immobile, lashed to a straight-backed chair by thick coils of ropes at his wrists, ankles. And Sam thought he'd knew of panic before. He wrenched against the ropes, hating that they held him immobile. Claustrophobia had never been an issue for Sam. He'd always loved hiding in tight spaces, except now he couldn't move and couldn't fight back, and he just needed to be free.

"Houdini couldn't get out of those ropes. Stop wasting your time."

Sam's head shot up, surveying his surroundings and trying to find the men who had been terrorizing him for more than a day. They were in one of the cabins. He recognized the tight rooms lined with room and the rough rocks of the fireplace. Jimmy lifted a metal bucket, ice clinking tinnily inside and hurled it at Sam, thoroughly dousing him in ice water. His lungs seized as blue cold burned white hot, thousands of stinging pins stabbing at his skin.

At least he didn't have to worry about dehydration anymore.

"How do you kill a werewolf?" The hulking figure, who was always shrouded in shadows, barked.

Sam trembled as the ice slicked down his shirt.

_Never admit to knowing about the supernatural. Never_.

"…tt-there's no such thing…"

He was pelted with water again, another frigid stripping burn. "How do you put down a vampire?"

"…I don't k-know what you're talkin' 'bout…"

Jimmy marched over and gripped his face hard with his hand, thumb and middle finger forcing his mouth open. "Answer the question."

Sam tried in vain to wiggle out of Jimmy's painful grip. He remained silent.

Instead of the icy kiss of water, he was slapped. Hard. His head rocked against the back of the chair.

"If I have to ask again, I'm pouring this down your throat," Jimmy menanced, jiggling the bucket. Sam saw at least a dozen of them gleam in the glow of the fire. "How do you kill a werewolf?"

"…silver bullet…t-to the heart."

The squat man nodded in satisfaction. "Now we're getting somewhere, Winchester. What about vampires?"

"…beheadingg…"

The man in the shadows joined the inquisition. "What's the name of the incantation to make holy water?"

Sam narrowed his eyes at the faceless beast and reciting the Latin smoothly.

Jimmy actually danced a jig, patting him proudly on the shoulder. "Kid's got brains."

Rage flared through him and Sam cursed him out in the same dead language. Jimmy kicked him swiftly in the shins, and he couldn't help but cry out. _Dean, help me_.

"Just ask the questions, Jimmy." The man who had helped Sam earlier said.

Sam's head turned and he saw him pressed against the corner of the room, looking as green and as pained as Sam felt. His face was all hard angles and dark features, but his eyes were kind and compassionate when they looked at Sam. He rocked his head in a covert gesture of encouragement.

The questions continued. Sam was drenched with near freezing water or slapped when he didn't answer immediately, succinctly or correctly.

Water soon soaked the concrete floors of the cabin. And the teenager was so cold, he couldn't hear the questions over the harsh violence of his shuddering.

Thankfully, hypothermia blunted the seriousness of his predicament, and he turned oddly pensive. For the first time in his life, he understood why people became victims, why death could be so easy. Instincts and training made him fight and claw to life, but that meant more pain and more torture. Surrender would be easier. He knew what would happen then—the divine serenity of Heaven that Pastor Jim had preached about, had promised him that's where his mother was.

Sam's heavy head lolled to his chest and not even Jimmy thwacking him on the back of the head gave him the strength to lift it. He was ready.

"That's enough." A soft voice said. It echoed, sounding both distant and too close.

The unsheathing of a knife spurred something inside of him, knotting his belly and kickstarting his slowing heart. They were going to slit his throat. Sam hadn't thought he'd die that way.

_Don't ever give up, Sammy. Ever. _

"Wait…um…I can answer more questions…" he rambled, clinging to life.

"That's not necessary, kid. You're finished."

Near hyperventilation, Sam closed his eyes and waited for the lethal pain and the wash of blood.

But knife cut through the ropes, not flesh, and he slid pitifully from the chair. The man heaved him away from the watery mess and in front of the fire. Bewildered, he couldn't fight as his shirt was peeled off, and he was swaddled in a blanket.

"Sam, can you hear me?" His cheek was patted gingerly. "Open your eyes, man. It's finally over."

Sam obliged. To his complete astonishment, the two men were grinning with pride. "Congrats, man! You survived."

He was still shivering with whiplashing force. "…s-ssurvived?"

"Doozies, kid." The big man answered. "Put up a hellvua fight too."

A cup of coffee was pressed into his hands, searingly hot. "You need to drink that." When he just looked at it stupidly, the man lifted it to his lips, tipping so he could drink.

Sam groaned, it was like swallowing acid.

"…where's my d-dad? I-is he dd-dead?"

Jimmy's face twisted with disbelief. "Of course he's not…Sam, didn't he tell you…"

Sam's eyes flickered to all three of the men as their frat boy smiles faded to obtuse horror. It was silent for several long minutes.

Jimmy knelt down in front of him, placing a hand on his knee. Terrified, Sam scrambled backwards, slamming into the hearth of the fireplace. "S-stay right there."

"Son," he said softly, lifting his hands in a posture of peace. "I thought you knew…you took me out, and I thought…I thought you were showing off. I never would…have hurt you if…I'm not a monster, kid."

Sam scoffed hoarsely. He was finally thawing and could feel the side of his face swelling, the eye closing. He could feel the uncomfortable shift of his ribs and the hot areas of pain where he had been kicked and stomped. "Get the hell away f-from me."

He downed the coffee, needing the heat and the caffeine and levered himself to his feet, stumbling from dizziness and the agony of his battered body. He powered unevenly towards the door. Doozies? It was too much to absorb. Doozies was just a game that hunters played. Dean went through an obstacle course, and spent the night in the woods. He hadn't been snatched from his bed and beaten.

He was only a foot away when it burst open and John Winchester filled the threshold, quite alive alive and beaming with pride usually reserved for Dean.

The realization that John had orchestrated this gruesome nightmare hurt more than anything he'd experienced in the past twenty-four hours. Sam now understood anguish that was beyond tears and rage beyond words. He gaped at the man who was his father, who had just spoken about how parents died for their children, and marveled at how he could have done this to him.

John gazed down at Sam, unmoved by the bruises or the blood smeared on the thin blanket and clapped him hard on the shoulder as if Sam had just scored the winning touchdown. "You passed, Sam. You're a hunter now. It's a big rite of passage."

Sam stared at him again, murder and tears in his eyes. He roughly shoved him out of the way and marched out into the cold dusk.

He heard Jimmy and the two men hollering at John from the hollow security of the Impala.

Sam stewed in his ire on the ride back to the motel, still beyond words but angry enough that he could smash furniture and make the betrayal tangible, visible and abundantly clear.

When John started screaming about family duty and his death of his wife, Sam barricaded himself in the bathroom, turned on the hot water and was finally able to cry.

-9-

_It was John with the wet cheeks and red eyes when Sam finished his telling the tale. Sam and Dean were both dry-eyed. The youngest Winchester's hands were clammy, but he was unburdened and found a peace inside him that hadn't been there before. Ingrid had told him that forgiveness wasn't about freeing the other person from guilt, but releasing yourself from pain, and Sam understood. He didn't want to carry this anymore. And from this point on, he wouldn't. It was John's albatross now._

_Sam placed his hand over his father's and pinned him with his eyes. "Dad, I forgive you."_

_"Sammy, I didn't know…" John's lip trembled and his face twisted with remorse and sadness. Sam didn't deny he was glad to see it._

_"If that's what you need to believe then fine, but you saw my face and the buckets…you know what they did to me." He said trembling with conviction. _

___Sam was done with John Winchester and with hunting. Seeing him just solidified the fact that he couldn't go back._ "I'm not coming back. I can't." He said and squeezed his father's hand. Because the love was still there, probably always would be. 

_Dean interjected, speaking for the first time in an hour. "I'm not either. You can contact us through Bobby."  
_

_Dean rose first, giving John a long hug before returning to his brother's side. Sam followed his big brother, lips turning upward as Dean draped an arm over his shoulder. Together, they walked out of the prison, the darkness and the evils of the past and into the sunshine, the good and the future that had suddenly been blown wide open._

_Together, they left their demons behind._

FIN


End file.
